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NEW    YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  NAF1S  &  CORNISH 
No.    2^  3    Pearl    Street. 
ST.  LOUIS,  MO.     NAFI9    CORNISH  &  CO. 


AYH 


PREFACE 


The  Publisher,  in  presenting  the  public  with 
another  Annual,  deems  it  unnecessary  to  make 
any  apology  for  its  appearance,  so  long  as  the 
hope  can  be  reasonably  entertained,  that  his  ef- 
forts to  please  will  not  be  wholly  unsuccessful. 
But  should  he  be  asked  why  he  has  added  ano- 
ther to  the  long  list  of  annuals  which  have  been 
published  under  the  titles  of  "  Gem,"  "  Souve- 
nier,"  "  Memorial,"  or  "  Forget  me  not,"  his 
ready  reply  must  be,  that  the-  unprecedented  pa- 
tronage which  has  been  extended  to  those  and 
similar  publications,  not  only  in  this  country  but 
in  all,  or  nearly  all  the  Metropolitan  cities  of  Eu- 
rope, encourages  the  hope  that  this  work  will 
also  find  a  sufficient  patronage  to  remunerate  him 
for  his  labour  and  expense,  or  at  least  to  prompt 
him  to  another  trial. 

"  The  Lily"  is  his  first  attempt,  and  although 
he  cannot  claim  for  it  that  merit  which  would  en- 


iVwL  ju 


IV  PREFACE. 

title  it  to  the  meed  of  praise,  he  is  ready  to  award 
to  its  contemporaries,  yet,  should  a  liberal  pub- 
lic look  upon  it  with  a  favorable  eye,  he  will 
endeavour  to  add  some  new  attraction  to  the 
Lily  in  each  successive  publication,  till  if  shall 
vie  with  those  which  have  already  secured  to 
themselves  so  high  a  place  in  the  estimation  of 
the  public. 

The  time,  labour,  and  expense  of  preparing 
even  a  miniature  work  of  this  description  is  so 
great,  and  the  success  of  the  experiment  so  un- 
certain, that  were  it  not  for  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  continue  it,  from  year  to  year,  the  Publisher 
would  hardly  have  ventured  to  "  cast  his  Book 
upon  the  waters,"  with  even  the  cheering  pros- 
pect that 

"  The  world  would  find  it  after  many  days." 

It  is  now,  however,  before  the  public,  and 
though  all  unfit  to  sustain  itself,  and  like  the 
Rose,  to  force  its  way  through  the  world  by  the 
strength  of  its  thorny  tendrils,  yet  the  hope  is  in- 
dulged, that  it  will  be  cherished  and  admired,  as 
the  tender  and  drooping  Lilv. 


CONTENTS, 


fte». 
Preface,    :::::::::     iii 

The  Young  Tyrolese,  ::::::  7 

Hymn,  (by  Mrs.  Opie,)  ::::::  25 
The  Young  Rebel,  ::::::  26 
The  Town  Child  and  Country  Child.  :  :  :  38 
The  Blue  Bell,  :::::::  42 
Lines  written  under  a  Butterfly  painted  in  an  Album,  44 
The  Storm,  ::::::::  46 
The  Country  Girl,  ::::::  49 
On  Two  Sisters,  :  :  :  :  :  :  :  51 
Lucy  and  her  Bird,  ::::::  52 
The  Old  Gentleman,  :  :  :  :  :  :  57 
The  Mountain  Daisy,  :         :         :         :         :         89 

A  walk  in  the  Temple  Gardens  in  the  summer  of  1827,  103 
The  Rose  of  Castle  Howard,  :  :  :  :  :  111 
Filial  Piety,  :  :  :  :  :  :  :  113 
The  Soldier's  Wife,  :  :  :  :  :  :  116 
Innocence,  :::::•::  124 
The  origin  of  "  Darby  and  Joan,"  :  :  ;  :  126 
Little  Moses,  :  :  :  :  :  :  :  131 
Isabel,  the  Lacemaker,  :  :  :  :  :  :  145 
Little  Goody  Two  Shoes,  :  162 

The  Deadly  Nightshade,  :  :  :  :  :  164 
The  Birds  and  the  Beggar  of  Bagdat,  ;        :       169 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Page 
The  House  Sparrow,  :  :  :  :  :  :  177 
The  Restless  Boy,  :  :  :  :  :  :  180 
The  School  Boys,  :         :         :         :         :         :   192 

Lines  written  at  Sea,  ::::::  201 
To  the  Harebell,  :::.:;:  204 
The  King  and  the  Minstrel  of  Ely,  :  :  j  205 
Lines  over  a  Covered  Seat,  :  :  :  :  :  212 
Stanzas  by  Lord  F.  L.  Gower,     :        :        :         :       214 


.   . 


THE  YOUNG  TYROLESE. 

EY  MISS  C.  STRICKLAND. 

Among  the  gallant  band  of  patriots  that  rallied 
so  bravely  round  the  standard  of  Andrew  Hofer, 
there  was  not  a  more  devoted  champion  of  free- 
dom than  Gustavus  Rosen.  Placed  by  birth 
and  fortune  beyond  the  cares  incidental  to  pover- 
ty, and  blessed  in  the  society  of  a  beloved  wife 
and  two  amiable  children,  Rosen  had  passed  the 
meridian  of  his  days  in  tranquil  happiness ;  mis- 
fort  Line  had  been  a  stranger  to  his  dwelling,  till 
the  invasion  of  the  French  army  poured  the  red 
tide  of  war  with  remorseless  fury  into  the  once 
peaceful  valleys  of  the  Tyrol.  All  that  was  dear 
and  lovely  lay  crushed  beneath  the  steps  of  the 
conqueror ;  the  voice  of  woe  and  wailing  was 
heard  throughout  the  land — mothers  mourned 
for  their  children,  children  for  their  parents. 

The  sound  of  busy,  cheerful  labour  ceased  or 
the  plains ;  the  joyous  voice  of  childhood  was 
hushed.     The  note  of  the  shepherd's  pipe  was 


8  THT}   *JCUfTC    TYROLESE. 

heard  uo  mqie  as  ho  led  his  fleecy  care  from  the 
'fold.  The  chime  of.sebbath  bells  no  longer 
swelled  with  hallowed  melody  upon  the  breeze, 
summoning  the  inhabitants  of  the  land  to  meet 
together  in  the  house  of  prayer,  to  mingle  in  one 
general  chorus  of  Draise  and  grateful  thanksgiv- 
ing to  Him  from  whose  hand  all  blessings  flow. 

Those  bells  were  now  only  heard  pealing  forth 
the  alarum  that  woke  terror  and  dismay  in  the 
hearts  of  the  feeble  and  the  helpless,  mingling  in 
jangling  and  discordant  sounds  with  the  rolling 
of  drums,  the  shrill  blast  of  the  bugle,  or  loud 
trumpet,  and  the  deep  roar  of  the  artillery.  The 
tumult  of  war  had  hushed  all  other  sounds. 

Panic  stricken,  the  Tyrolese  at  first  made  no 
effectual  effort,  for  resisting  the  invading  army  ; 
they  looked  to  Austria  for  succour,  but  she  was 
unable  to  afford  them  any  assistance,  and  the 
hapless  Tyrol  fell  a  victim  to  the  policy  of  its 
princes. 

In  the  hour  of  terror  and  despair,  when  all  had 
forsaken  her,  Hofer,  the  village  innkeeper,  alone 
stood  forward  as  the  champion  of  his  country. 
Fired  with  patriotic  zeal,  he  planted  the  standard 
of  freedom  once  more  on  his  native  mountains, 
exhorting  his  countrymen  to  rally  round  it  in  de- 
fence of  their  country's  rights. 


THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE.  9 

• 

The  fire  of  patriotism  was  kindled,  and  like 
the  electric  shock  it  flew  from  man  to  man.  The 
thrilling  cry  of  "  Hofer  and  Liberty !"  was  re- 
peated by  every  tongue.  "  We  will  conquer  or 
die  in  the  cause  of  freedom  !"  and  a  thousand 
answering  echoes  from  the  hills  returned, —  "  We 
will  die  !" 

Even  women  and  children  seemed  inspired 
»vith  the  same  patriotic  zeal,  and  vowed  to  die  in 
the  defence  of  their  country.  Mothers  were 
seen  leading  their  sons,  yet  striplings  in  years, 
to  the  camp,  with  their  own  hands  arming  them 
in  the  cause  of  liberty.  "  It  is  better  to  die  than 
to  live  the  slaves  of  France,"  they  said. 

The  standard  of  the  Tyrolese  army  was  com- 
mitted by  Hofer's  own  hand,  to  the  care  of  the 
young  son  of  Gustavus  Rosen,  a  gallant  boy  of 
sixteen,  with  a  solemn  charge  to  defend  it  with 
his  life. 

"  I  will  defend  it,"  replied  the  youth,  as  he  un- 
folded it  to  the  breeze,  "  and  where  this  banner 
falls,  there  shall  the  son  of  Gustavus  Rosen  be 
found  beside  it.     Death  only  shall  part  us." 

Three  times  did  the  brave  Tyrolese,  led  on 
by  Hofer,  beat  back  the  invader  to  the  frontier, 
and  victory  seemed  to  crown  them  with  success  ; 
but  the  crafty  Bavarian  now  poured  his  thousands 
into  the  Tyrol,  overpowering  by  the  force  of 


10  THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE. 

numbers,  the  few  brave  men  who  were  left  to  de- 
fend their  country,  and  effecting  that  which  the 
armies  of  France  had  been  unable  to  do  alone. 

At  this  juncture  Austria  made  peace  with 
France,  and  the  Tyrol  was  ceded  to  Buonaparte, 
who  demanded  it  as  one  of  the  conditions  of  the 
treaty.  Unable  to  defend  the  province,  the  Em- 
peror yielded  up  the  Tyrol  without  reserve. 

Hopeless,  dejected,  and  overpowered  by  num- 
bers, the  unfortunate  Tyrolese  were  obliged  to 
relinquish  the  unequal  strife  :  burning  with  in- 
dignation they  withdrew  among  the  inaccessible 
glens  and  fastnesses  of  their  native  mountains, 
resolving  to  perish  rather  than  yield  to  the  usur- 
per's power. 

The  bravest  and  best  of  that  devoted  band 
had  fallen,  or  were  carried  captives  across  the 
Alps  : 

"  Scattered  and  sunk,  the  mountain  band 

Fling  the  loved  rifle  from  their  hand, 

The  soul  of  fight  is  done." 

During  the  heat  of  the  war,  Gustavus  Rosen 
had  conveyed  his  wife  and  his  infant  daughter  to 
a  safe  retreat  among  the  mountains,  where  under 
the  care  of  an  old  and  faithful  friend,  who  for 
many  years  had  followed  the  adventurous  life  of 
an  Alpine  hunter,  he  knew  they  would  be  safe 


THE    YOUNG    TTROLESE.  11 

from  the  horrors  of  the  war,  which  spared  not  in 
its  fury  either  the  infant  or  the  ancient  of  days. 

"  Here,  my  beloved  Gertrude,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing his  weeping  partner,  "  you  and  our  Te- 
resa will  find  safety  and  repose  ;  and  though  old 
Albrecht's  cot  be  rude  and  homely,  it  is  far  bet- 
ter than  our  camps  and  leaguered  walls." 

"  There  is  no  safety  where  you  are  not,"  ex- 
claimed the  wife  of  Rosen,  throwing  herself  into 
his  arms — "  if  there  be  safety  in  this  wild  retreat, 
stay  and  share  it  with  us." 

The  eye  of  the  patriot  soldier  flashed  fire  ;  he 
turned  and  pointed  sternly  to  the  wreaths  of  dun 
smoke  that  rolled  in  heavy  volumes  across  the 
distant  plain.  "  A  thousand  helpless  mothers, 
with  their  orphan  children,  cry  for  vengeance 
against  the  spoiler  on  yonder  smoking  plain ! 
And  shall  their  appeal  be  unheard  !"  he  cried  ve- 
hemently, grasping  his  sword.  "  See,  Gertrude, 
even  now  heaven  blushes  with  the  fiery  glare  of 
yon  flaming  hamlet,  and  shall  I  slumber  here  in 
inglorious  ease,  while  my  country  demands  my 
aid  '?" 

Then  softening  the  impetuosity  of  his  manner, 
he  strove  to  soothe  his  weeping  spouse  ;  the  pa- 
triot's sternness  yielded  to  the  tenderness  of  the 
husband  and  father,  he  fondly  folded  the  beloved 
objects  of  his  solicitude  to  his  heart.     Suddenly 


12  THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE. 

a  rifle  was  fired.  "  Hark,  'tis  the  signal  gun,,y 
he  cried.  "  Gertrude,  that  shot  was  fired  by  our 
gallant  boy."  "  My  child  !  my  Henrick  !"  ex- 
claimed the  distracted  mother.  "  Stay,  my  hus- 
band !"  but  before  the  sound  of  that  rifle  had 
ceased  to  reverberate  among  the  rocks,  Rosen 
was  gone  :  with  desperate  haste  he  pursued  his 
perilous  way,  leaping  from  crag  to  crag,  now 
trusting  his  weight  to  the  weak  sapling  that  over- 
hung his  path,  or  stemming  with  nervous  arm  the 
force  of  the  mountain  torrent  that  would  have 
barred  his  path. 

Old  Albrecht  watched  his  fearful  progress  with 
silent  awe  ;  then  turned  to  soothe  the  grief  of  the 
disconsolate  Gertrude  and  her  daughter  ;  cheer- 
ing them  with  the  hope  that  Rosen  would  soon 
return,  at  the  same  time  bidding  them  welcome 
to  his  lowly  roof  and  mountain  fare.  "  You  will 
be  as  safe,  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  as  the  eagle  on 
his  eyrie  on  the  rocks  above  you." 

The  first  intelligence  that  reached  the  wife  ot 
Rosen  was,  that  her  husband  had  fallen  in  the 
Passeyre  valley,  in  a  desperate  skirmish  with  the 
French  ;  it  was  the  last  effort  made  by  the  brave 
Tyrolese  in  defence  of  their  country.  The 
brave  Henrick  too  was  no  more  ;  he  was  found 
stretched  on  the  banks  of  the  little  stream  at  the 
gorge  of  the  valley,  wrapped  in  the  banner  which 


THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE.  13 

he  had  sworn  to  defend  with  his  last  drop  o? 
blood.  He  had  faithfully  fulfilled  his  word,  and 
the  standard  of  freedom  had  become  the  winding 
sheet  of  the  young  hero. 

"  We  knew  young  Henrick  Rosen,"  said  the 
soldier  who  brought  the  sad  news  to  the  cottage 
of  Aibrecht,  "  by  his  fair  face,  and  by  the  stand- 
ard which  he  still  grasped  in  his  hand,  though 
that  hand  was  stiffened  by  the  chillness  of  death." 

This  heavy  news  overpowered  the  weak  frame 
of  Madame  Rosen  ;  she  never  again  looked  up, 
and  before  the  close  of  the  autumn,  Teresa  wept 
over  the  green  sod  that  covered  the  grave  of  her 
mother. 

She  had  not  attained  her  fifteenth  year  when 
she  found  herself  an  orphan,  alone  in  the  world, 
cut  off  from  every  kindred  tie  :  yet  in  the  excess 
of  her  grief,  she  acknowledged  the  mercy  of  Him 
who  had  not  left  her  entirely  destitute. 

The  old  hunter  and  his  wife,  folding  the  sor- 
rowing orphan  by  turns  in  their  arms,  promised 
to  fulfil  to  her  the  part  of  parents.  "  You  shall 
be  our  child,"  they  said, — "  shall  eat  of  our  own 
bread,  and  drink  of  our  own  cup,  and  be  to  us  as 
a  daughter." 

With  pious  words  they  strove  to  quiet  the  grief 
of  their  adopted  child,  directing  her  to  look  to 
that  source  whence  only  true  comfort  flows  :  and 


14  THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE. 

humbly  to  submit  to  the  chastening  of  that  all- 
merciful  God,  who  wounds  but  to  heal,  and  fills 
our  hearts  with  sorrow  that  true  joy  may  abound. 

The  distressing  events  which,  as  a  soldier's 
daughter,  Teresa  had  necessarily  witnessed,  and 
the  untimely  fate  of  her  parents,  had  cast  a  shade 
of  melancholy  over  the  mind  of  the  young  or- 
phan, and  given  a  loftier  tone  to  her  feelings  than 
was  usual  in  one  so  young. 

Seated  on  the  hearth  at  the  feet  of  old  Al- 
brecht,  she  loved  to  listen  to  his  mountain  le- 
gends ;  by  turns  to  weep  or  exult  over  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Swiss  patriot  Tell,  a  theme  on  which 
the  old  hunter  never  tired.  During  the  long 
winter  evenings,  while  the  wind  roared  round 
their  lowly  dwelling,  or  the  snow  whirling  in  ed- 
dies choked  the  paths,  and  beat  upon  their  roof, 
old  Albrecht  would  beguile  the  tedious  hours,  by 
relating  the  feats  of  his  youthful  days,  charming 
the  attentive  ears  of  his  old  Minna  and  of  Teresa, 
by  the  exploits  of  the  chamois  hunter,  or  tales  of 
other  days.  But  the  young  Teresa  loved  best  to 
talk  of  her  parents — of  the  patriots  who  fell  in 
defence  of  their  country — of  her  heroic  brother, 
who  had  fallen  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  so 
young,  so  brave — though  her  tears  always  min- 
gled with  the  lofty  feelings  which  these  proud, 
yet  sad  recollections  inspired. 


THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE.  15 

The  long  weary  winter  at  length  wore  away ; 
the  warm  breath  of  spring  unloosed  the  mountain 
torrents  from  their  icy  chain  ;  the  rocky  glens 
echoed  once  more  "  with  the  joy  of  waves." 
The  snow  wreaths  melted  before  the  influence  of 
the  sunbeams  ;  and  the  earth,  though  tardily,  put 
off  her  snowy  vest,  and  came  forth  like  a  bride 
decked  with  fresh  flowers. 

In  early  youth  there  is  a  buoyancy  in  the  mind 
which  grief  cannot  entirely  subdue,  and  which 
inclines  us  to  seize  with  eagerness  every  glimpse 
of  joy  that  presents  itself  in  our  path.  Teresa 
hailed  the  approach  of  Spring  with  delight ;  she 
loved  to  ramble  among  the  lonely  glens,  or  climb 
the  mountain  paths  ;  to  watch  the  stealthy  labors 
of  the  marmot,  hollowing  its  subterranean  dwell- 
ing in  the  rocks  ;  to  follow  with  admiring  eye  the 
soaring  flight  of  the  eagle,  winging  his  way 
through  the  pathless  fields  of  air ;  to  listen  to  the 
short  shrill  cry  of  the  swift-footed  chamois,  as 
startled  at  her  approach,  he  bounded  away  to  his 
inaccessible  home  among  the  rocks  :  the  murmur 
of  the  stream  ;  the  sighing  of  the  wind  as  it  lifted 
the  branches  above  her ;  or  the  cheerful  whistle 
of  the  herdsmen  as  they  tended  their  flocks  on 
the  adjacent  hills,  were  music  to  the  ear  of  Tere- 
sa, and  sounds  which  spoke  of  childish  joys. 

In  one  of  her  mountain  rambles,  Teresa  had 


16  THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE. 

afforded  some  assistance  to  a  poor  shepherd  in 
distress,  and,  in  return  for  her  kindness,  he  had 
presented  her  with  a  young  lamb,  one  of  the 
firstlings  of  his  flock.  Delighted  with  the  gift, 
Teresa  carried  home  her  lamb,  and  shewed  it 
with  innocent  pride  to  her  adopted  parents. 
From  th  it  time  Minna,  (for  so  she  called  it  out 
of  affection  to  her  adopted  mother, )  became  the 
constant  companion  of  her  walks. 

Unweariedly  the  little  creature  followed  the 
footsteps  of  her  mistress,  or  gambolling  before 
her,  only  quitted  her  side  to  crop  the  flowers,  or 
tender  grass  that  grew  in  her  path.  Sometimes 
her  gentle  mistress  would  reproach  her  favorite 
for  wantonly  destroying  the  garland  she  was 
weaving  to  adorn  her  hat  of  straw,  or  to  wreathe 
among  her  own  fair  locks. 

Her  dress  was  such  as  was  usually  worn  by 
the  Tyrolese  and  Swiss  girls.  A  bodice  of  dark 
colored  cloth,  laced  tight  to  her  bosom,  which 
was  shaded  by  a  handkerchief  or  tucker  of  white 
muslin,  a  short  petticoat  of  striped  stuff,  and  a 
white  linen  apron  ;  these,  with  a  large  straw  hat, 
formed  the  general  habiliments  of  the  young  Te- 
resa, whose  native  grace  and  loveliness  needed 
not  the  adventitious  adornments  of  dress  to  ren- 
der her  more  pleasing. 

One  of  1  eresa's  favorite  haunts  was  a  narrow 


THE    YOUNG    TTROLESE.  17 

dell,  not  far  from  the  dwelling  of  old  Albrecht ; 
the  only  entrance  to  this  secluded  spot  was  by  a 
rude  descent  of  rocky  fragments,  which  had  been 
worn  into  the  appearance  of  steps  by  the  foot  of 
the  hunter.  The  mountain  daisy,  the  pale  ra- 
nunculus, and  deep-blue  violet,  bloomed  here  in 
native  beauty  among  the  rocks,  or  diversified  the 
sloping  turf  beneath  the  lime  and  chesnut  tree  ; 
while  the  dark  pine  afforded  a  support  to  the  va- 
rious parasitical  plants  which  wreathed  their 
slender  stems  in  fantastic  garlands  round  its 
rugged  bark. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  beautiful  calm  day,  in 
the  month  of  August,  that  wearied  with  playing 
her  knitting  pins  by  the  side  of  old  Minna  at  the 
cottage  door,  Teresa  sought  her  favorite  retreat, 
and  seated  on  the  grassy  mound  at  the  foot  of  a 
tall  lime  tree,  fell  into  a  train  of  sorrowful  reflec- 
tions. 

In  her  way  to  the  dell  she  had  passed  by  the 
grave  of  her  mother,  on  which  with  duteous  care, 
according  to  the  custom  of  her  country,  she  had 
strewn  fresh  gathered  flowers  ;  unconsciously 
her  tears  had  fallen  while  offering  this  tribute  of 
affection  to  the  memory  of  her  beloved  parent, 
and  the  remembrance  of  all  her  tender  love,  and 
maternal  care,  recurred  to  her  mind,  to  sadden 
the-  heart  of  the  young  orphan. 
2* 


18  THE   YOUNG    TYROLESE. 

In  vain  her  little  pet  strove  with  anxious  soli- 
citude to  attract  her  notice  :  Teresa,  engrossed 
by  her  own  sad  thoughts,  appeared  unconscious 
of  her  presence,  till  bleating  reproachfully,  the 
neglected  favorite  licked  her  hands,  and  rubbed 
her  head  against  her  mistress's  knee. 

"  Ah,  pretty  Minna !"  she  said,  stooping  to 
caress  the  lamb,  "  I  fear  I  have  grieved  you  by 
my  neglect."  Just  then  a  rustling  among  the 
bushes  caused  her  to  turn  her  head,  when  she 
beheld  from  between  the  parting  masses  of  fo- 
liage, two  strangers,  who  were  intently  regarding 
her. 

A  vague,  indistinct  idea  crossed  the  mind  of 
the  bewildered  girl,  as  she  gazed  for  an  instant 
on  the  war-worn  features  of  the  elder  stranger  ; 
her  heart  beat  tumultously  ;  was  it  a  dream, 
the  coinage  of  her  own  imagination,  or  did  she 
indeed  behold  her  father  1  Yes,  it  was  indeed 
Gustavus  Rosen !  The  humble  garb  of  the 
herdsman  that  enveloped  his  noble  form,  the 
deep  scars  which  had  marred  his  lofty  brow,  and 
the  pallid  hue  which  sickness  and  sorrow  had 
spread  over  his  countenance,  could  not  disguise 
the  parent  from  the  eye  of  filial  affection. 

"  My  Father !"  burst  involuntarily  from  the 
lips  of  Teresa : — the  arms  of  the  war-worn  sol- 
dier were  extended  to  enfold  his  daughter,  as  she 


THE    YOUNG    TYROLESE.  19 

sprang  forward  and  flung  herself  weeping  on  his 
bosom. 

"  My  child !  my  dear,  my  beloved  child  !" 
murmured  the  agitated  father,  pressing  her  to 
his  heart  with  fervent  gratitude. 

Who  shall  enter  into  the  feelings  of  that  parent 
and  his  child,  thus  unexpectedly  re-united  1  or 
speak  the  anguish  of  Rosen's  heart,  when  Tere- 
sa led  him  in  silence  to  the  grave  which  covered 
the  mouldering  ashes  of  her  beloved  mother  1 

"  It  is  the  hand  of  the  Almighty,"  he  said,  at 
length  rising  from  the  grassy  mound  where  the 
first  burst  of  grief  had  subsided.  "  And  shall  I 
dare,  ungrateful  as  I  am,  to  arraign  the  justice  of 
that  Being,  who  in  his  mercy  summoned  the  o'er 
wearied  spirit  to  its  home  of  rest  ?" 

Then  turning  to  his  daughter,  he  said,  "  Tere- 
sa, you  must  welcome  this  young  stranger  as  the 
preserver  of  your  father's  life.  Come  hither, 
Lewis,"  he  continued,  taking  the  hand  of  his 
companion  ;  "  this  is  the  beloved  child  of  whom 
you  have  so  often  heard  me  speak  during  my 
captivity." 

The  dark  eye  of  the  young  stranger  brightened 
as  he  took  the  extended  hand  of  Teresa,  who 
thanked  him  with  artless  warmth  for  the  services 
rendered  to  her  father. 


20  THE    YOUNG    TYROLE3E. 

To  old  Aibrecht  and  his  wife,  Rosen  seemed 
like  one  returned  from  the  grave  ;  and  to 
their  anxious  inquiries  how  he  whom  they  had 
numbered  with  the  dead,  thus  again  appeared 
among  them,  he  replied — that  in  the  skirmish 
which  had  taken  place  in  the  Passeyre  valley,  he 
had  indeed  been  wounded,  but  not  mortally,  and 
was  taken  prisoner,  and  conveyed  with  many  of 
his  gallant  countrymen  to  the  Porta  Molina  of 
Mantua,  where  he  was  confined  in  the  barracks, 
which  at  that  time  formed  the  depot  for  prisoners 
of  war. 

"  During  my  illness,  which  was  long  and  pain- 
ful," said  Rosen,  "  my  chief  attendant  was  this 
youth,  the  son  of  one  of  the  centinels  who  used 
to  guard  my  prison — to  his  unremitting  tender- 
ness and  care  I  first  owed  my  life,  and  subse- 
quently my  liberty. 

"  I  remained  in  a  doubtful  state,  lingering  as  it 
were  between  life  and  death,  from  the  beginning 
of  November  till  the  month  of  January  ;  health 
at  length  appeared  returning,  when  one  morning 
I  was  surprised  by  an  unexpected  visit  from  the 
governor,  who  approaching  the  table  near  which 
I  was  seated,  laid  a  written  paper  before  me  ;  my 
eye  glanced  over  its  contents.  They  were  too 
plainly  defined.  It  was  my  own  death-warrant, 
duly  signed  and  sealed. 


THE  YOUNG    TYROLESE.  21 

"  It  was  not  the  fear  of  death,  for  I  had  faced 
him  too  often  in  the  field  to  dread  his  power,  but 
it  was  the  thought  of  my  wife  and  of  you,  my  Te- 
resa, that  for  a  moment  bowed  the  stern  spirit  of 
the  soldier,  and  forced  tears  from  eyes  which 
never  wept  before. 

"  '  There  are  those  that  make  it  hard  for  you 
to  die,  Gustavus  Rosen,'  said  the  governor.  I 
acknowledged  it.  He  paused  for  a  minute  and 
hesitated — then  turning  to  me  said,  ■  There  is  a 
Way  by  which  you  might  not  only  avert  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  Emperor,  but  convert  it  into  ever- 
lasting friendship.'  I  was  silent,  and  he  con- 
tinued, taking  my  hand,  *  You  were  the  friend  of 
Andrew  Hofer — discover  his  retreat  to  me,  and 
your  pardon  is  instantly  sealed.' 

"  *  Tell  your  base  Emperor,'  I  cried,  dashing 
from  me  the  hand  of  the  governor,  *  that  Gusta- 
vus Rosen  scorns  life  and  liberty  on  such  vile 
terms !' 

"  But,  alas  !  my  firm  rejection  of  these  infa- 
mous terms  availed  not ;  the  gallant  Hofer  had 
been  betrayed,  basely  betrayed  into  the  hands  of 
his  enemies,  and  was  that  very  day  led  through 
the  streets  of  Mantua  as  a  prisoner.  This  was 
he  death-blow  to  the  hopes  of  freedom  and  the 
Tyrol.  They  had  captured,  but  had  not  con- 
quered that  brave  spirit ;  the  soul  of  the  patriot 


22  THE   YOUNG  TYROLESE. 

was  still  as  free  as  when  first  he  reared  the 
standard  of  liberty  on  his  native  mountain. 

"Ask  me  not  now  to  dwell  on  his  death-scene; 
the  remembrance  of  that  name  is  yet  too  fresh  in 
the  minds  of  his  friends — suffice  it  to  say,  he  died 
as  he  lived — the  hero,  the  patriot,  the  pride,  the 
glory  of  his  country  !  The  name  of  Hofer  will 
ever  be  cherished  by  the  sons  of  liberty  ;  and  his 
memory,  and  that  of  his  followers  who  died  in 
the  cause  of  Freedom,  will  be  hallowed  by  the 
tears  of  their  country,  and  their  deathless  fame 
recorded  in  the  page  of  histoiy,  and  immor- 
talized by  the  song  of  the  patriot  bard. 

"  Time,"  continued  Rosen,  "  passed  on:  agi- 
tation of  mind  brought  on  a  return  of  my  illness, 
and  for  many  weary  weeks  I  remained  a  prey  to 
fever  and  disease  :  during  that  period  my  sen- 
tence was  repealed ;  the  death  of  our  gallant 
leader  had  satisfied  the  vengeance  of  our  ene- 
mies. 

"With  returning  health  came  an  insatiable 
longing  for  liberty,  and  the  desire  of  once  again 
beholding  my  wife  and  my  child.  Louis,  who 
had  been  my  faithful  attendant  during  all  my 
sickness,  marked  my  restlessness,  and  having 
won  from  me  the  cause,  formed  a  plan  for  my 
escape.  His  father  being  lately  dead,  he  had  no 
tie  to  bind  him  to  the  spot,  and  he  insisted  on 


THE  YOUNG   TYROLESE.  23 

sharing  himself  the  chances  of  our  expedition — 
my  escape — which  we  earned  into  effect  as  soon 
as  circumstances  favored  our  design.  Success 
attended  us  beyend  our  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions, nor  can  I  bo  too  grateful  to  the  generous 
friend  who  has  been  the  means  of  restoring  me 
once  more  in  freedom  to  the  arms  of  my  beloved 
child." 

"  Is  young  Louis  a  native  of  France,  or  is  he 
a  Mantuan  V  asked  Albrecht,  who  had  for  some 
time  regarded  the  young  stranger  with  more  than 
common  interest. 

%t  My  father  was  a  French  soldier,"  replied 
Louis ;  "  my  mother  a  native  of  Bregentz,  a  town 
bordering,  as  I  believe,  on  Tyrol  and  Switzerland. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  an  Alpine  hunter,  and 
left  her  parents  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the 
camp,  with  my  father." 

"  Is  she  yet  living  1"  asked  old  Albrecht,  in  a 
deep  voice. 

"  My  mother  has  been  dead  nearly  five  years." 

"  And  your  father  ?" 

"  He  also  is  dead  :  he  died  in  the  hospital  at 
Mantua,  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"  What  was  your  mother's  maiden  name  V 
demanded  old  Minna,  with  great  emotion. 

"  Annette  Friedwald,"  was  the  brief  reply. 
"  She  was  our  child!  Our  only  child!"  exclaimed 


24  THE    YOUN  B    TYROLESE. 

the  old  couple.  "  And  you,  Louis,  are  our  grand- 
child, whom  Heaven  in  its  bounty  has  restored 
to  us  to  be  the  solace  and  comfort  of  our  declin- 
ing years." 

It  was  indeed  the  child  of  their  long  regretted 
daughter,  who  by  a  train  of  singular  events  had 
thus  unexpectedly  been  made  known  to  them. 

Gustavus  Rosen  and  his  daughter  shared  in 
the  happiness  of  the  old  hunter  and  his  wife. 
"  You  are  the  kind  protectors  of  my  Teresa," 
said  Rosen,  "  when  she  was  a  destitute  orphan, 
and  her  father  now  restores  to  you  a  son  to  be 
the  prop  of  your  old  age.  Thus  may  true  friend- 
ship and  benevolence  ever  meet  with  their  du« 
recompense !'' 


HYMN 


BY    MRS.  OPIE. 

There's  not  a  leaf  within  the  bower ; 
There's  not  a  bird  upon  the  tree  ; 
There's  not  a  dew-drop  on  the  flower ; 
But  bears  the  impress,  Lord  !   of  thee. 

Thy  hand  the  varied  leaf  designed, 
And  gave  the  bird  its  thrilling  tone  ; 
Thy  power  the  dew  drop's  tints  combined 
Till  like  the  diamond's  blaze  they  shone. 

Yes  ;  dew-drops,  leaves,  and  buds,  and  all 
The  smallest,  like  the  greatest  things  ; 
The  sea's  vast  space,  the  earth's  wide  ball, 
Alike  proclaim  thee  King  of  kings. 

But  man  alone  to  bounteous  heaven, 

Thanksoivins's  conscious  strains  can  raise  : 

To  favored  man  alon'    tis  given 

To  join  the  angelic  choir  in  praisf  ! 
3 


THE  YOUNG  REBEL. 


BY    MRS.    S.    C.    HALL. 

"  Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  morning — the 
gun-beams  danced  merrily  on  the  gay  river  which 
skirted  the  village  of  Callow — and  the  dewdrops 
hung  like  diamonds  round  the  clustering  vine 
that,  in  those  days,  overshadowed  the  humble 
school  of  Dame  Mabel  Leigh.  Dear  Dame  Ma- 
bel !  she  was  one  of  the  governesses  of  the  olden 
time,  who  ruled  by  the  assistance  of  a  large  birch 
rod,  and  sundry  other  aids  which  are  now  out  of 
fashion.  She  was  a  very  excellent  old  woman 
for  all  that ;  and  although  she  thought  it  beneath 
the  dignity  of  a  school-mistress  to  reason  with 
her  pupils,  yet  she  possessed  so  many  good 
and  valuable  qualities,  that  even  the  vicar's  lady 
treated  the  dame  with  deference  and  respect. 
She  had  held  undisputed  sway  over  all  the  girls 


THE    YOUNG    REBEL.  27 

and  many  of  the  boys,  from  two  to  ten  years  of 
age,  for  more  than  forty  years  :  but  do  not  for  a 
moment  imagine  that  the  worthy  dame  kept  one 
of  those  fine  "  Establishments,"  whose  blue, 
green,  or  red  signboards  announce  that  "  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen  are  here  taught  French  and 
English  Education,  and  all  fashionable  Accom- 
plishments ;" — No  such  thing;  the  simple  one  of 
Dame  Mabel,  which  was  more  than  half  covered 
with  clustering  grapes  and  vine  leaves,  only 
promised  that  there  children  were  "  taught  to 
read:"  and  the  villagers  of  Callow  were  quite 
satisfied  if  their  daughters  could  read  the  Bible, 
sew,  hem,  and  stitch  neatly. 

Thomas  Hill,  indeed,  the  rich,  fat,  and  rosy 
landlord  of  the  Plough  Inn,  had  only  one  daugh- 
ter ;  and  to  make  her  genteel,  as  he  called  it,  he 
sent  her  for  six  months  to  a  boarding-school. 
When  she  had  been  there  a  short  time,  such  a 
box  arrived  at  the  Plough !  every  one  in  the  vil- 
lage thought  it  must  be  something  very  beautiful 
as  it  came  from  Mary  Hill's  school ;  and  when 
it  was  opened,  appeared  a  piece  of  embroidery, 
in  a  fine  gold  frame.  People  were  somewhat 
puzzled  at  first  to  know  what  it  was,  There  was 
an  animal,  which  might  be  either  a  pig  or  a  mule, 
with  its  heels  in  the  air  ;  and  there  was  a  boy 
somewhat  taller  than  a  tree,  and  another  brown- 


28  THE    YOUNG    REBEL. 

black  looking  thing  :  however,  the  poetry  under- 
neath explained  the  matter — 

"The  vicious  kicking  donkey- 
Has  thrown  my  brother  and  Pompey." 

The  silly  people  of  Callow  (for  there  are  silly 
people  every  where)  thought  that  Mary  must  be 
wonderfully  improved  ;  but  the  wise  ones  knew 
that  it  was  not  right  for  a  girl  in  her  situation  of 
life  to  waste  so  much  time  on  such  useless  work. 
Indeed  poor  Mary  was  not  the  better  for  her  six 
month's  trip  ;  she  brought  home  a  great  many 
airs  ;  and  it  was  very  evident  that  she  had  not 
been  properly  instructed ;  for  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  say  that  she  despised  her  parents, 
because  they  were  not  as  rich  or  as  fashionable 
as  the  "Pa's"  and  "JVla's"  of  the  young  ladies 
she  knew  at  school.  However,  I  have  said 
enough  about  her. 

Monday  was  always  a  busy  day  with  good  Ma- 
bel ;  the  little  floor  of  the  school-room  was  fresh 
sanded;  laurel,  gemmed  with  bright  hedge  roses, 
graced  the  chimney  ;  the  eight-day  clock,  tower- 
ing even  unto  the  ceiling,  seemed  to  tick  more 
loudly  than  ever ;  Tom,  a  venerable  old  white 
rnouser,  had  a  new  blue  riband  round  his  neck  ; 
and  the  high-backed  chair  was  placed  so  as  to 
command  not  only  a  good  view  of  thcfour  cor- 


THE    YOUNG    REBEL.  29 

ners  of  the  nx  m,  but  of  a  large  cupboard,  where 
books  and  work  were  ananged,  and  where  the 
very  little  people  often  congregated  like  a  nest  of 
young  wrens,  and  whispered,  and  twittered, 
whenever  the  dame's  back  was  turned  ; — then  a 
little  black-looking  carved  table  was  placed  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  this  throne,  and  on  it,  ready 
for  use  every  Monday  morning,  appeared  a  new 
well-made  birch  rod.  The  good  dame  seldom 
wore  out  more  than  one  a  week,  which,  consider- 
ing all  things  in  those  days,  was  not  thought  too 
much.  But  I  wish  I  could  describe  the  dame  to 
you, for  I  am  sure  you  will  never  see  any  one  like 
her,  as  even  the  village  school-mistresses  now 
are  very  different  to  what  they  were  twenty  years 
ago :  her  apron  was  always  white  as  snow,  and 
round  it  a  flounce  full  two  fingers  deep ;  her 
neckerchief,  clear  and  stiff,  neatly  pinned  down 
in  front ;  the  crown  of  her  cap  in  the  highest  part 
might  measure  perhaps  half  a  yard,  somewhat 
more  or  less,  and  under  it  her  nice  grey  hair  was 
turned  over  a  roller  ;  and  although  her  eyes  were 
dark  and  penetrating,  and 'her  nose  long  and 
hooked,  yet  her  smile  was  so  sweet  that  every 
little  child's  heart  felt  happy  when  she  gave  such 
a  mark  of  approbation :  but  there  were  times 
when  in  very  truth  the  good  dame's  anger  was 
3* 


30  THE  YOUNG    REBEL. 

excited  ;  and  then  she  certainly  did  look  what 
the  young  ones  called  "  very  terrible." 

"  I'll  certainly  try  this  new  rod  on  your  bare 
shoulders,  Fanny  Spence,"  said  the  old  lady, 
one  "  black  Monday  morning,"  to  a  little  arch- 
looking  girl  with  blue  eyes,  who  amused  herself 
by  eating  the  corners  of  her  speiling-book — "  I'll 
teach  you  how  to  munch  your  book  as  a  rabbit 
does  clover.  Mercy  on  me  !  you  have  half  torn 
out  the  pretty  picture  of 4  The  Fox  and  Grapes,' 
and  you  have  daubed  over  as  many  as  ten  leaves 

with How  did  you  get  at  my  rose  pink  ? — 

Oh !  you  wicked,  wicked  child  !" — the  dame,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  now  lost  her  temper,  and  ele- 
vated her  rod  and  voice  at  one  and  the  same 
moment.  Fanny,  who  had  opened  her  mouth  to 
commence  squalling,  thought  it  better  to  tell  the 
truth  ;  so,  keeping  as  far  from  the  rod  as  she 
could — "  Indeed,  if  you  please  ma'am,  it  was 
Dick  Shaw — he  painted  'em  for  me — and  he 
stole  it  out  of  your  basket  yesterday,  while  you 
were  taking  up  the  stitches  little  Kate  dropped 
in  the  toe  of  her  stocking." 

Before  Dame  Mabel  had  decided  what  pun- 
ishment to  inflict,  her  attention  was  attracted  by 
little  Kate  herself  who  crept  slowly  to  her  seat 
with  hanging  head  and  downcast  eyes. 

"  This  is  a  very  pretty  hour  for  you  to  come 


THE   YOUNG  REBEL.  31 

to  school,  miss, — Why,  all  your  strings  are  out, 
and  your  hands  and  arms  torn  and  dirty.  I  see 
how  it  is  ; — open  your  mouth — black,  as  I  sup- 
posed ; — You  have  been  down  the  lane  after  the 
blackberries  ; — Very  well — I'll  find  a  way  to 
punish  you."  The  old  lady  stooped,  and  with 
great  dexterity  drew  off  her  garter,  (it  was  twen- 
ty years  ago,)  and  was  about  to  tie  the  culprit's 
hands  behind  her,  when,  in  lisping  tones,  the  lit- 
tle thing  declared  it  was  all  Dick  Shaw's  fault : 
li  He  showed  me  the  bush,  ma'am,  and  he  pro- 
mised to  hold  it  ;  and  I  did  not  eat  more  than 
two  or  three,  when  he  pulled  it  away,  and  I  fell 
into  the  ditch." — "  And  served  you  right  too," 
said  the  dame  :  "  Girls  have  no  business  to  play 
with  boys  ; — but  your  arm  is  much  scratched 
just  here.  Well,"  she  continued,  her  tone  in- 
stantly softening,  (for  she  was  really  very  kind 
hearted,)  give  me  my  blue  bag,  and  I  will  bind  it 
up  with  some  of  the  old  linen  the  good  vicar's 
lady  gave  me." — The  bag  was  brought,  and  emp- 
tied :  but  no  old  linen  was  to  be  found.  The 
children  were  severally  questioned  ;  and  at  last 
little  Phosbe  Ford,  a  merry  laughing  thing  of  six 
years  old,  who,  though  she  had  many  faults,  al- 
ways spoke  the  truth — a  perfection  which  made 
her  even  at  that  age  respected — said  that  she 
saw  Dick  Shaw  pull  out  the  roll  of  linen  at 


32  THE  YDUNG  REBEL.    fc 

twelve  o'clock  on  Friday,  and  that  he  said  it 
would  do  nicely  to  fetter  White  Tom. 

"  That  boy,"  said  the  dame,  "  shall  be  expelled 
my  school  ;  and  I  certainly  ought  not  to  have 
kept  him  since  his  trick  of  the  spectacles,  nor 
would  I,  indeed,  were  it  not  that  others" — and 
her  eye  glanced  at  a  red-faced,  red-armed  girl  of 
ten,  with  a  fuzzy  head  and  little  twinkling  eyes — 
"  were  almost  as  had  as  he.  I  only  said  almost, 
Mary, — and  you  have  been  very  good  since." 

By  the  way,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  affair  of 
the  spectacles  occurred  two  days  after  Dick 
came  to  Dame  Leigh's  school.  Dick  took  a 
fancy  to  fit  his  governess's  spectacles  to  Farmer 
Howit's  big  pig — and  Mary,  romping  Mary 
Green,  agreed  to  hold  the  pig  while  they  were 
fitting  it  on.  Now  as  the  pig,  who  in  this  in- 
stance showed  more  wisdom  that  either  Dick  or 
Mary,  could  see  better  without  than  with  specta- 
cles, he  soon  pushed  Dick  into  a  stagnant  pool 
of  green  water,  and  left  the  luckless  Mary 
sprawling  like  a  great  frog  in  the  mire  ;  while  he 
rejoined  his  brothers  and  cousins,  grunting  tri- 
umphantly, and  curling  his  little  tail,  which  the 
fallen  Dick  had  unmercifully  pulled  in  the  con- 
test. But  nothing  could  cure  the  boy's  love  of 
mischief;  and  every  thing  that  went  wrong  in 
the  village  was  laid  to  his  account.     His  poor 


THE    YOUNG    REBEL.  33 

mother's  heart  was  almost  broken  ;  his  father 
even,  hard-working  man  as  he  was,  had  been 
seen  to  shed  tears  over  his  son's  wilful  ways  ; 
and  his  sister,  a  fine,  good,  industrious  girl  of 
sixteen,  could  have  been  of  great  service  to  her 
parents,  were  it  not  that  her  entire  time  was  taken 
up  in  trying  to  keep  Dick  out  of  mischief,  or  to 
repair  the  mischief  Dick  had  done. 

"  It  was  he  pinned  Kitty  Carey's  frock  to 
Aunt  Colvell's  red  petticoat,  and  it  tore  such  a 
great  piece ;  and  Kitty  cried  because  it  was  a 
new  London  chintz,"  said  Mary  Doyle. 

"  Hush,  don't  speak  so  loud,"  said  Liddy 
Grant ;  "  the  dame  will  hear  ye." 

"  She's  not  looking,  she's  mending  little  Kate's 
arm  ;  and  I  just  want  to  show  you  the  bright  new 
housewife  my  mother  gave  me,  because  I  would 
not  play  at  '  touch  wood'  with  Dick  Shaw  on 
Sunday  ; — and  I  know  that  no  good  will  come  of 
him  or  any  body  else  who  breaks  Sunday." 

"  I  tink,"  said  Anna  Miles,  who  could  not 
speak  plain,  "  I  tink  Dick  very  bold  ;  for  he" — 

"  Bless  me,  look  !"  interrupted  Mary  Doyle. 
"  Hark !  did  ye  ever  hear  such  a  screaming  1 — 
It  is  Dick  Shaw  himself;  and  Patty  is  dragging 
him  to  school ; — he  kicks  like  a  donkev, — there 
goes  his  shoe." 


34  THE    YOUNG    REBEL. 

"  His  bran  new  spelling-book — and  his  hat, 
that  cost  his  poor  father  five  shillings,"  said  the 

prudent  Liddy "  He  has  the  best  of  it ;  Patty 

will  never  be  able  to  bring  him  up." 

"  She  has  the  best  of  it  now  though,"  cried 
Mary,  who,  unable  to  sit  still  any  longer,  got  one 
foot  on  the  lower  step,  and  held  fast  to  the  door- 
post, as  if  afraid  that  Dick  would  break  loose 
and  do  some  more  mischief. 

Patty  pulled — Dick  kicked  and  roared, — no 
young  lady  singing  the  do  re  mi  fa,  that  gives 
master  and  pupil  so  much  trouble,  ever  opened 
her  mouth  so  widely  as  Dick — you  could  see  all 
the  way  down  his  throat.  And  Patty  looked  quite 
as  calm  and  tranquil  as  Dick  looked  wild  and  fu- 
rious. Every  body,  yes,  even  the  pretty  face 
which  is  now  gazing  over  this  pretty  book,  looks 
ugly  in  a  passion.  At  last  Patty's  firmness  con- 
quered Dick's  violence,  and  she  carried  him  into 
the  school-room. 

Here  a  fresh  mortification  awaited  the  young 
Rebel :  he  had  been  conquered  by  a  girl ; — that 
was  bad  enough  ;  but  it  was  still  worse  to  be  ex- 
pelled a  girls'  school.  Dick  stood  stiff  and 
sturdy,  while  the  good  dame  read  him  a  lecture, 
which,  though  simply  worded,  conveyed  many 
useful  lessons,  and  ended  by  saying,  "  that  evil 


THE    YOUNG    REBEL.  35 

communications  corrupt  good  manners,"  and  he 
should  no  longer  remain  in  her  school.  Dick 
was  formally  expelled  ;  and  in  a  little  time  Dame 
Mabel's  scholars  became  as  peaceable  as  they 
had  been  before  Obstinate  Dick  set  so  bad  an 
example  ;  even  romping  Mary  Green  became  a 
very  good  sort  of  girl. 

Dick,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  did  not  improve  ;  for 
poor  boys  as  well  as  rich  ones  can  never  be 
respected  or  prosper  in  their  several  spheres  ot 
life,  if  they  are  wilful,  violent,  disobedient,  or 
Sabbath  breakers. 

The  young  Rebel's  father,  finding  that  he  con- 
tinued so  very  wicked,  permitted  him  to  go  to 
sea  ;  and  for  many  years  no  one  heard  any  thing 
of  Obstinate  Dick.  Dear  Dame  Mabel  grew  so 
old  that  the  vicar  got  a  new  mistress  for  the 
school ;  but  the  old  woman  continued  to  live 
there  ;  and  though  she  was  blind  and  nearly 
lame,  she  never  wanted  for  any  thing  ;  for  the 
poor  are  often  more  grateful  than  the  rich,  and 
the  villagers  remembered  the  care  and  pains  the 
dame  took  with  them  when  they  were  little  trou- 
blesome  children. 

One  fine  spring  morning,  when  Patty  Shaw 
was  placing  her  aged  friend  on  a  nice  green  seat 
at  the  school  door,  (for  old  people  love  to  breathe 


36  THE    YOUNG    REBEL. 

the  pure  air,  and  Mabel  felt  the  sun's  rays  very 
warm  and  pleasant,  though  she  could  not  see  its 
brightness,)  a  young  man,  with  a  wooden  leg  anc* 
but  one  eye,  in  a  tattered  sailor's  dress,  stopped, 
and  looked  earnestly  up  the  village.  "  Do  you 
want  to  see  any  one,  young  man?"  said  Patty,  in 
her  clear  calm  voice — "  or,  as"  you  seem  much 
fatigued,  is  there  any  thing  I  can  give  you  ?" 
"Is  there  an  old  man,  a  carpenter,  of  the  name 
of  Shaw,  in  your  village  1"  replied  he  ;  "  and  can 
you  give  me  a  draught  of  water?  for  I  have 
walked  far,  and  have  not  a  penny  to  buy  food." 

"  Patty,  Patty  !"  cried  old  blind  Mabel,  "  if 
your  brother  Dick  is  a  living  being,  that  is  his 
voice." 

And  she  was  right.  Dick  Shaw's  temper  had 
prevented  his  advancement ;  and  he  returned  in 
poverty  to  his  native  village,  where,  but  for  the.kind 
exertions  of  his  sister,  he  must  have  become 
an  inmate  of  the  workhouse  ;  for  his  parents 
were  both  dead,  and  he  had  not  received  even 
their  blessing.  But  Patty  was  beloved  by  every 
one  ;  and  poor  Dick  was  sincerely  sorry  for  his 
former  obstinate  ways  :  and  he  now  manages  to 
go  more  quickly  on  the  messages  of  those  who 
employ  him  with  his  wooden  leg,  than  he  used 
fcrmerly  when  he  had  two  good  ones.    And,  said 


THE    YOUNG    REBEl..  3 

ae,  the  other  day,  "  If  sincere  penitence  could 
restore  my  eye  and  leg,  which  I  lost  through  my 
own  wilfulness,  I  might  then  be  really  useful ; 
but  that  cannot  now  be  ,  so  I  must  do  my  best, 
and  be  thankful  that  God  did  not  cut  me  off'  in 
the  midst  of  my  sins.** 


THE 


TOWN  CHILD  AND  COUNTRY  CHILD. 


BY  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


Child  of  the  Country  !  foe  as  air 

Art  thou,  and  as  the  sui/^hine  fair  ; 

Born,  like  the  lily,  where  tne  dew 

Lies  odorous  when  the  day  is  new  ; 

Fed  'mid  the  May-flowers  like  the  bee, 

Nursed  to  sweet  music  on  the  knee, 

Lull'd  in  the  breast  to  that  glad  tune 

Which  winds  make  'mong  the  woods  in  June  ; 

I  sing  of  thee  ; — 'tis  sweet  to  sing 

Of  such  a  fair  and  gladsome  thing. 

Child  of  the  Town  !  for  thee  I  sigh  : 
A  gilded  roof's  thy  golden  sky, 
A  carpet  is  thy  daisied  sod, 
A  narrow  street  thy  boundless  road, 
Thy  rushing  deer's  the  clattering  tramp 
Of  watchmen,  thy  best  light's  a  lamp, 


TOWN  CHILD  AND  COUNTRY  CHILD.        39 

Through  smoke,  and  not  through  trellised  vines 
And  blooming  trees,  thy  sunbeam  shines  : 
I  sing  of  thee  in  sadness  ;  where 
Else  is  wreck  wrought  in  aught  so  fair. 

Child  of  the  Country  !  thy  small  feet 
Tread  on  strawberries  red  and  sweet ; 
With  thee  I  wander  forth  to  see 
The  flowers  which  most  delight  the  bee  ; 
The  bush  o'er  which  the  throstle  sung 
In  April  while  she  nursed  her  young  ; 
The  den  beneath  the  sloe-thorn,  where 
She  bred  her  twins  the  timorous  hare  ; 
The  knoll,  wrought  o'er  with  wild  bluebells, 
Where  brown  bees  build  their  balmy  cells  ; 
The  greenwood  stream,  the  shady  pool, 
Where  trouts  leap  when  the  day  is  cool ; 
The  shilfa's  nest  that  seems  to  be 
A  portion  of  the  sheltering  tree, 
And  other  marvels  which  my  verse 
Can  find  no  language  to  rehearse. 

Child  of  the  Town  !  for  thee,  alas  ! 
Glad  nature  spreads  nor  flowers  nor  grass  : 
Birds  build  no  nests,  nor  in  the  sun 
Glad  streams  come  singing  as  they  run : 
A  maypole  is  thy  blossom'd  tree, 
A  beetle  is  thy  murmuring  bee  ; 
Thy  bird  is  caged,  thy  dove  is  where 
Thy  poulterer  dwells,  beside  thy  hare 


40  TOWN  CHILD  AND 

Thy  fruit  is  pluck'd,  and  by  the  pound 
Hawk'd  clamorous  all  the  city  round ; 
No  roses,  twinborn,  on  the  stalk, 
Perfume  thee  in  thy  evening  walk  ; 
No  voice  of  birds — but  to  thee  comes 
The  mingled  din  of  cars  and  drums, 
And  startling  cries,  such  as  are  rife 
When  wine  and  wassail  waken  strife. 
Child  of  the  Country  !  on  the  lawn 
I  see  thee  like  the  bounding  fawn, 
Blithe  as  the  bird  which  tries  its  wing 
The  first  time  on  the  winds  of  spring  ; 
Bright  as  the  sun  when  from  the  cloud 
He  comes  as  cocks  are  Growing  loud  ; 
Now  running,  shouting,  'mid  sunbeams, 
Now  groping  trouts  in  lucid  streams, 
Now  spinning  like  a  mill-wheel  round, 
Now  hunting  echo's  empty  sound, 
Now  climbing  up  some  old  tall  tree 

for  climbing  sake.     'Twas  sweet  to  thes 
'o  sit  where  birds  can  sit  alone, 
Or  share  with  thee  thy  venturous  throne. 
Child  of  the  Town  and  bustling  street, 
What  woes  and  snares  await  thy  feet ! 
Thy  paths  are  paved  for  five  long  miles, 
Thy  groves  and  hills  are  peaks  and  tiles  ; 
Thy  fragrant  air  is  yon  thick  smoke, 
Which  shrouds  thee  like  a  mourning  cloak  ; 


COUNTRY   CHILD.  41 

And  thou  art  cabin'd  and  confined 

At  once  from  sun,  and  dew,  and  wind  ; 

Or  set  thy  tottering  feet  but  on 

Thy  lengthen'd  walks  of  slippery  stone  ; 

The  coachman  there  careering  reels 

With  goaded  steeds  and  maddening  wheels  ; 

And  Commerce  pours  each  poring  son 

In  pelf's  pursuit  and  hollos,  run. 

While  flush'd  with  wine,  and  stung  at  play, 

Men  rush  from  darkness  into  day. 

The  stream's  too  strong  for  thy  small  bark  ; 

There  nought  can  sail,  but  what  is  stark. 

Fly  from  the  town,  sweet  Child  ;  for  health 
Is  happiness,  and  strength,  and  wealth. 
There  is  a  lesson  in  each  flower, 
A  story  in  each  stream  and  bower  ; 
On  every  herb  on  which  you  tread 
Are  written  words  which,  rightly  read, 
Will  lead  you  from  earth's  fragrant  sod 
To  hope,  and  holiness,  and  God. 


THE  BLUE  BELL, 

*  I  would  not  be  a  floweret  hung 

On  high  in  mountain  snows  ; 
]Vor  o'er  a  castle  wall  be  flung 
All  stately  though  it  rose  : 
I'd  breathe  no  sighs 
For  cloudless  skies, 

Nor  perfumed  eastern  gale, 
So  I  might  be 
A  blue-bell  free, 

In  some  low  verdant  vale. 

M  For  there  the  swains  and  maidens  meet, 

"With  summer  sport  and  son«j, 
And  fairies  lead  with  unseen  feet 
Their  moonlight  dance  alons: : 
Each  tiny  lip 
Would  gladly  sip 

The  dew  my  cup  enshrined, 
And  next  morn's  bee 
"Would  drink  from  me 

The  sweets  they  left  behind. 


THE  BLUE  BELL.  43 

H  The  laurel  hath  a  loftier  name, 

The  rose  a  brighter  hue, 
But  Heaven  and  I'd  be  clad  the  same 
In  fair  and  fadeless  blue  : 
No  blood-stain'd  chief 
Ere  plucks  this  leaf, 

To  make  his  wreath  more  gay ! 
Though  still  its  flower 
Decks  village  bower, 

And  twines  the  shafts  of  May." 

Sweet  Florence  !  may  thy  gentle  breast 

As  artless  pleasures  swell, 
As  those  thou  deemest  still  to  rest 
In  thy  beloved  blue-bell ! 
And  may'st  thou  feel, 
Though  time  shall  steal 

Thy  beauty's  freshest  hue, 
A  bliss  still  shed 
Around  thy  head, — 

Unchanged  like  Heaven's  own  blue  ! 

R.T. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  UNDER    A   BUTTERFLY    PAINTED    IN    AN    ALBUM, 

I  have  noted  many  a  time 
Authors  skill'd  in  prcse  and  rhyme, 
Who  a  strict  resemblance  find 
In  this  insect  to  mankind. 

Often  have  I  ponder' d  on 
That  unfair  comparison  : 
True,  the  butterfly  is  gay, 
Vain,  and  idle  in  his  play  ; 
Nay,  perhaps  he  thinks  no  less 
Than  a  coxcomb  of  his  dress  ; 
True,  he  roves  from  bower  to  bower ; 
True,  he  kisses  every  flower, 
Quitting  that  he  most  desired 
For  another  more  admired  : 
Never  fixing,  always  changing, 
Ever  wandering,  ever  ranging. 
So  far  is  resemblance  seen 
Men  and  butterflies  between. 


ON  A    BUTTERFLY.  45 

But  when  man  successful  pleads, 
Wide  he  publishes  his  deeds  ; 
Trumpets  forth  the  victim's  shame, 
Boasts  his  power,  and  blasts  his  fame  ; 
While  the  fickle  butterfly 
Has  his  one  good  quality, 
(Every  thing  save  man  has  some) 
Though  unfaithful— he  is  dumb! 

T.  E.  C. 


THE  STORM. 

BT   JOHN    C.  MERCIER,  ESQ. 

See  the  threatening  clouds  o'erhead 
Wide  their  airy  pinions  spread ; 
Darkly  shrouding  from  the  eye 
Golden  sun  and  azure  sky. 
Solemn  twilight  wraps  the  vale, 
Hardly  breathes  the  sinking  gale, 
Hush'd  is  every  note  of  gladness, 
Looks  of  joy  are  turn'd  to  sadness, 
Nature  pauses,  silent,  still, 
Conscious  of  impending  ill ! 

Lo  !  the  lightning's  vivid  blaze 
Flashes  through  the  gloomy  haze. 
Hark  !  o'er  yonder  mountain's  brow 
Thunders  roll  on  thunders  now. 
Now  their  echoes  ring  afar 
Like  the  wind-borne  shout  of  war ; 


THE    STORM.  47 

Fainter  now  and  fainter  sighing, 
Like  the  moans  of  legions  dying ; 
Now  at  length  the  murmur  fails, 
Lost  among  the  distant  dales. 
Hide  !  for  now  descends  the  storm, 
Dusky  as  a  locust  swarm, 
Looking  in  its  awful  state 
Like  the  veil  that  curtains  fate. 
On  the  mountains  craggy  breast 
Now  its  deepening  shadows  rest. 
Fiercely  brooding  ere  it  sallies 
Bandit-like  upon  the  valleys  ; 
Now  it  moves,  it  sails,  it  sweeps 
Downward  from  the  giant  steeps  ! 

Surely  in  this  dreadful  hour 
Demons  lend  the  tempest  power  ! 
As  they  urge  the  furious  breeze 
Harvests  ebb  and  flow  like  seas  ; 
Here  are  vineyards  whirl'd  in  air ; 
Forests  lie  uprooted  there  ; 
Here  are  barks  and  billows  dashing, 
There  are  spires  and  towers  crashing ; 
Mud-built  shed  and  marble  wall 
Heap  on  heap  like  chaos  fall. 

Shelter,  shelter  !  now  the  rains 
Burst  upon  the  ravaged  plains, 


48  THE    STORM. 


As  if  God  had  once  again 


Will'd  to  drown  the  sons  of  men. 
Pelting  sleet  and  rattling  hail 
Drive  upon  the  burden'd  gale  ; 
Rills  unseen  till  now  are  pouring, 
Floods  are  swelling,  torrents  roaring, 
Flocks  and  herds  are  swept  away, 
Huts  and  hamlets — where  are  they  ? 

Hush  !  some  mighty  arm  at  length, 
Binds  the  tempest  in  its  strength ; 
'Tis  the  Great  Jehovah's,  lo, 
There  he  lifts  his  radiant  bow. 
At  the  sight  the  lightnings  cease 
Muffled  thunders  sink  to  peace, 
Ruffian  winds  desist  from  railing 
Watersprings  on  high  are  failing, 
Mists  disperse,  and  earth  once  more 
Smiles  as  brightly  as  before. 


THE  COTTAGE  GIRL. 


ST    W.    WORDSWORTH. 

That  happy  gleam  of  vernal  eyes, 
Those  locks  from  Summer's  golden  skies, 

That  o'er  thy  brow  are  shed ; 
That  cheek — a  kindling  of  the  mom, 
That  lip — a  rose-bud  from  the  thorn, 

I  saw  ;  and  Fancy  sped 
To  scenes  Arcadian,  whispering,  through  soft  air, 
Of  bliss  that  grows  without  a  care  ; 
Of  happiness  that  never  flies — 
How  can  it  where  love  never  dies  1 
Of  promise  whispering,  where  no  blight 
Can  reach  the  innocent  delight ; 
Where  pity  to  the  mind  convey'd 
In  pleasure  is  the  darkest  shade, 
That  time,  unwrinkled  grandsire,  flings 
From  his  smoothly-gliding  wings. 

What  mortal  form,  what  earthly  face, 
Inspired  the  pencil,  lines  to  trace, 
5 


50 


THE    COUNTZ.F    GIRL. 


And  mingle  colors  that  could  breed 

Such  rapture,  nor  want  power  to  feed  ? 

For,  had  thy  charge  been  idle  flowers, 

Fair  damsel,  o'er  my  captive  mind, 

To  truth  and  sober  reason  blind, 

'Mid  that  soft  air,  those  long-lost  bowers, 

The  sweet  illusion  might  have  hung  for  hours  ! 

— Thanks  to  this  tell-tale  sheaf  of  corn, 

That  touchingly  bespeaks  thee  born, 

Life's  daily  tasks  with  them  to  share, 

Who,  whether  from  their  lowly  bed 

They  rise,  or  rest  the  weary  head, 

Do  weigh  the  blessing  they  entreat 

From  heaven,  and  feel  what  they  repeat. 

While  they  give  utterance  to  the  prayer 

That  asks  for  daily  bread. 


%A 


ON  TWO  SISTERS. 

BY   F.    M.    REFOLDS. 

Young  Dora's  gentle,  pure,  and  kinio, 
With  lofty,  clea:,  and  polish'd  mind  • 
But  Dora,  rich  in  mental  grace, 
Alas  !  is  somewhat  poor  in  face  ; 
Pity  her  noble  soul  don't  warm, 
A  Grecian  statue's  perfect  form  * 

But,  Anne,  in  thee  all  charms  combine ; 
Each  gift  of  beauty,  sweet,  is  thine  ! 
Thy  form  surpasses  e'en  desire  ; 
Thine  eyes  are  rolling  orbs  of  fire  ! 
Enchanting,  perfect,  is  the  whole- 
Pity  the  statue  wants  a  soul ! 


LUCY  AND  HER  BIRD. 


BY    ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


The  Sky-Lark  hath  perceived  his  prison-door 
Unclosed  ;  for  liberty  the  captive  tries  : 

Puss  eagerly  hath  watch'd  him  from  the  floor, 
And  in  her  grasp  he  flutters,  pants,  and  dies. 


Lucy's  own  Puss,  and  Lucy's  own  dear  Bird, 
Her  foster'd  favorites  both  for  many  a  day, 

That  which  the  tender-hearted  girl  preferred, 
She  in  her  fondness  knew  not  sooth  to  say. 

in. 
For  if  the  Sky-Lark's  pipe  were  shrill  and  strong, 

And  its  rich  tones  the  thrilling  ear  might  please, 
Yet  Pussybel  could  breathe  a  fireside  song 

As  winning  when  she  lay  on  Lucy's  knees. 


LUCY    AND    HER    BIRD.  53 

IV. 

Both  knew  her  voice,  and  each  alike  would  seek 
Her  eye,  her  smile,  her  fondling  touch  to  gain : 

How  faintly  then  my  words  her  sorrow  speak, 
When  by  the  one  she  sees  the  other  slain. 


The  flowers  fall  scatter'd  from  her  lifted  hands  ; 

A  cry  of  grief  she  utters  in  affright ; 
And  self-condemn'd  for  negligence  she  stands 

Aghast  and  helpless  at  the  cruel  sight. 


Come,  Lucy,  let  me  dry  those  tearful  eyes  ; 

Take  thou,  dear  child,  a  lesson  not  unholy 
From  one  whom  nature  taught  to  moralise 

Both  in  his  mirth  and  in  his  melancholy. 

VII. 

I  will  not  warn  thee  not  to  set  thy  heart 
Too  fondly  upon  perishable  things  ; 

In  vain  the  earnest  preacher  spends  his  art 
Upon  that  theme  ;   in  vain  the  poet  sings. 

VIII. 

It  is  our  nature's  strong  necessity, 

And  this  the  soul's  unerring  instincts  tell : 

Therefore,  I  say,  let  us  love  worthily, 

Dear  child,  and  then  we  cannot  love  too  well. 

5* 


54  LUCY    AND   HER    BIRD. 

IX. 

Better  it  is  all  losses  to  deplore, 

Which  dutiful  affection  can  sustain, 

Than  that  the  heart  should,  to  its  inmost  core, 
Harden  without  it,  and  have  lived  in  vain. 

x. 

This  love  which  thou  hast  lavish'd,  and  the  woe 
Which  makes  thy  lip  now  quiver  with  distress, 

Are  but  a  vent,  an  innocent  overflow, 

From  the  deep  springs  of  female  tenderness. 


And  something  I  would  teach  thee  from  the  grief 
That  thus  hath  filPd  those  gentle  eyes  with  tears, 

The  which  may  be  thy  sober,  sure  relief 
When  sorrow  visits  thee  in  after  years. 


I  ask  not  whither  is  the  spirit  flown 

That  lit  the  eye  which  there  in  death  is  seal'd  ; 
Our  Father  hath  not  made  that  mystery  known  ; 

Needless  the  knowledge,  the  re  fore  not  reveal'd. 

XIII. 

But  didst  thou  know,  in  sure  and  sacred  truth, 
It  had  a  place  assign'd  in  yonder  skies  ; 

There,  through  an  endless  life  of  joyous  youth, 
To  warble  in  the  bowers  of  Paradise  : 


LUCY   AND   HER    BIRD.  55 

XIV. 

Lucy,  if  then  the  power  to  thee  were  given 
In  that  cold  clay  its  iife  to  re-engage, 

Wouldst  thou  call  back  the   warbler  from  its 
To  be  again  the  tenant  of  a  cage  1        [heaven 

xv. 
Only  that  thou  might'st  cherish  it  again, 

Wouldst  thou  the  object  of  thy  love  recall 
To  mortal  life,  and  chance,  and  change,  and  pain, 

And  death,  which  must  be  suffer' d  once  by  all . 

xvi. 
Oh,  no,  thou  say'st :  oh,  surely  not,  not  so  ! 

I  read  the  answer  which  those  looks  express  : 
For  pure  and  true  affection  well  I  know 

Leaves  in  the  heart  no  room  for  selfishness. 

XVII. 

Such  love  of  all  our  virtues  is  the  jjem  : 

We  bring  with  us  the  immortal  seed  at  birth : 

Of  Heaven  it  is,  and  heavenly  :  woe  to  them 
Who  make  it  wholly  earthly  and  of  earth  ! 

XVIII. 

What  we  love  perfectly,  for  its  own  sake 

We  love,  and  not  our  own  ;  being  ready  thus 

Whate'er  self-sacrifice  is  asked,  to  make, 
That  which  is  best  for  it,  is  best  for  us. 


56  LUCY   AND    HER    BIRD. 

XIX 

0  Lucy !  treasure  up  that  pious  thought ; 

It  hath  a  balm  for  sorrow's  deadliest  darts, 
And  with  true  comfort  thou  wilt  find  it  fraught, 

If  grief  should  reach  thee  in  trv^  heart  of  hearts. 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN 


A    TALE. 


For  days,  for  weeks,  for  months,  for  years, 
did  I  labor  and  toil  in  the'  pursuit  of  one  bewil- 
dering, engrossing,  overwhelming  object.  Sleep 
was  a  stranger  to  my  eyelids  ;  and  night  after 
night  was  past  in  undivided,  unmitigated  appli- 
cation to  the  studies  by  which  I  hoped  (vainly, 
indeed)  to  attain  the  much  desired  end  ;  yet  all 
through  this  long  and  painful  period  of  my  ex- 
istence, I  trembled  lest  those  who  were  my  most 
intimate  friends,  and  from  whom,  except-  upon 
this  point,  I  had  no  concealment,  should  discover, 
by  some  incautious  word,  or  some  unguarded  ex- 
pression, the  tendency  of  my  pursuits,  or  the 
character  of  my  research. 

That  I  had  permitted  the  desire  with  which  my 
heart  was  torn,  and  my  mind  distmbed  to  obtain 


5S  THE    OLD   GENTLEMAN. 

such  complete  dominion  over  every  thought, 
every  wish,  every  feeling,  seems,  at  this  period 
of  my  life,  wholly  unaccountable  ;  and  I  recur  to 
the  sufferings  I  endured  in  concealing  its  ex- 
istence, with  a  sensation  of  torture  little  less 
acute  than  that,  by  which  I  was  oppressed  during 
the  existence  of  the  passion  itself. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  infatuation,  that  one 
evening  in  summer,  when  every  body  was  out  of 
town,  and  not  more  than  eight  hundred  thousand 
nobodies  were  left  in  it,  I  had  been  endeavoring 
to  walk  off  a  little  of  my  anxiety  by  a  tour  of  the 
outer  circle  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and,  hearing  a 
footstep  close  behind  gne,  turned  round,  and  be- 
held a  venerable  looking  old  gentleman,  dressed 
entirely  in  green,  with  a  green  cravat  tied  round 
his  neck,  and  wearing  a  low-crowned  hat  upon 
his  head,  from  under  which  his  silver  hair  flowed 
loosely  over  his  shoulders.  He  seemed  to  have 
his  eyes  fixed  on  me  when  for  a  moment  I  looked 
round  at  him  ;  and  he  slackened  his  pace  (how- 
ever much  he  had  previously  quickened  it  to 
reach  his  then  position  relative  to  me,)  so  as  to 
keep  nearly  at  the  same  distance  from  me,  as  he 
was,  when  I  first  noticed  him. 

Nothing  is  more  worrying  to  a  man,  or  to  one 
so  strangely  excited  as  I  then  was,  more  irritating, 
than  the  constant  pat  pat  of  footsteps  following 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  59 

him.  After  I  had  proceeded  at  my  usual  pace 
for  about  ten  minutes,  and  still  found  the  old  gen- 
tleman behind  me,  I  reduced  my  rate  of  going,  in 
order  to  allow  my  annoyance  to  pass  me.  Not 
he  ;  he  equally  reduced  his  rate  of  going.  Thus 
vexed,  and  putting  faith  in  inferior  age  and  supe- 
rior strength,  I  proceeded  more  rapidly  ;  still 
the  old  gentleman  was  close  upon  me  ;  until 
before  I  reached  the  gates  of  Park-crescent, 
leading  to  Portland-place,  I  had  almost  broken 
into  a  canter,  with  as  little  success  as  attended 
my  other  evolutions.  I  therefore  resumed  my 
original  step,  and  thinking  to  effect  by  stratagem 
what  force  could  not  accomplish,  I  turned  ab- 
ruptly out  of  Portland-place  into  Duchess- 
street — the  old  gentleman  was  at  my  heels  :  I 
passed  the  chapel  into  Portland-street — for  a  mo- 
ment I  lost  sight  of  him  ;  but  before  I  had 
reached  the  corner  of  Margaret-street,  there  he 
was  again. 

At  that  time  I  occupied  lodgings  in  the  house 
of  two  maiden  sisters  in  Great  Marlborough- 
street,  and  considering  that  the  police-office  in 
that  neighborhood  would  render  me  any  aid  I 
might  require  to  rid  myself  of  my  new  acquain- 
tance, should  he  prove  troublesome,  I  determined 
to  run  for  my  own  port  at  all  events. 

I  crossed  Oxford-street,  and,  in  order  to  giro 


60  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

myself  another  chance  of  escape,  darted  down 
Blenheim-steps  and  along  the  street  of  that 
name  ;  but  the  old  man's  descent  was  as  rapid  as 
mine  ;  and  happening,  as  I  passed  the  museum 
and  dissecting  rooms  of  the  eminent  anatomist 
Brooks,  to  turn  my  head,  my  surprise  was  more 
than  ever  excited  by  seeing  my  venerable  friend 
actually  dancing  in  a  state  of  ecstacy  along  the 
side  of  the  dead  wall  which  encloses  so  many 
subjects  for  contemplation.  At  this  moment  I 
resolved  to  stop  and  accost  him  rather  than  make 
the  door-way  of  my  own  residence  the  arena  of 
a  discussion. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  turning  short  round,  "  you  will 
forgive  my  addressing  you,  but  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  affect  ignorance  that  I  am,  for  some 
reason,  the  object  of  your  pursuit.  I  am  near 
home  :  if  you  have  any  communication  to  make, 
or  desire  any  information  from  me,  I  would  beg 
you  to  speak  now." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  sir,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  "  I  do  wish  to  speak  to  you  ;  and 
you,  although  perhaps  not  at  this  moment  aware 
of  it,  are  equally  desirous  of  speaking  to  me.  You 
are  now  going  into  your  lodgings  in  Marlborough 
street,  and  so  soon  as  you  shall  have  divested 
yourself  of  your  coat,  and  enveloped  yourself  in 
that  blue  silk  gown  which  you  ordinarily  wear. 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  61 

and  have  taken  off  your  boots  and  put  your  feet 
into  those  morocco  slippers  which  were  made  for 
you  last  March  by  Meyer  and  Miller,  you  pur- 
pose drinking  some  of  the  claret  which  you 
bought  last  Christmas  of  Henderson  and  Son,  of 
Davies-street,  Berkley-square,  first  mixing  it 
with  water  ;  and  immediately  after  you  will  ap- 
ply yourself  to  the  useless  and  unprofitable 
studies  which  have  occupied  you  during  the  last 
five  or  six  years." 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  trembling  at  what  I  heard,  "how, 
or  by  what  means,  you  have  become  possessed 

of  these  particulars,  I " 

"  No  matter,"  interrupted  my  friend  :  "  if  you 
are  disposed  to  indulge  me  with  your  society  for 
an  hour  or  so,  and  bestow  upon  me  a  bottle  of 
the  wine  in  question,  I  will  explain  myself 
There,  sir,"  continued  he,  "  you  need  not  hesi- 
tate ;  I  see  you  have  already  made  up  your  mind 
to  offer  me  the  rights  of  hospitality ;  and  since  I 
know  the  old  ladies  of  your  house  are  advocates 
for  early  hours  and  quiet  visitors,  I  will  conform 
in  all  respects  to  their  wishes  and  your  conve- 
nience." 

Most  true  indeed  it  was  that  I  had  determined 
coute  qui  coute  to  give  my  new  old  friend  an  invi- 
tation and  a  bottle  of  wine  ;    and  before  he  had 
concluded  his  observations  we  were  at  the  door 
G 


62  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

of  my  house,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more,  although 
my  servant  was  absent  without  leave,  we  were 
seated  at  a  table  on  which  forthwith  were  placed 
the  desired  refreshments. 

My  friend,  who  continued  to  evince  the  most 
perfect  knowledge  of  all  my  private  concerns, 
and  all  my  most  intimate  connexions,  became 
evidently  exhilarated  by  the  claret ;  and  in  the 
course  of  one  of  the  most  agreeable  conversa- 
tions in  which  I  had  ever  participated,  he  related 
numerous  anecdotes  of  the  highest  personages  in 
the  country,  with  all  of  whom  he  seemed  perfect- 
ly intimate.  He  told  me  he  was  a  constant  at- 
tendant at  every  fashionable  party  of  the  season ; 
in  the  dull  time  of  the  year  the  theatres  amused 
him  ;  in  term  the  law-courts  occupied  his  atten- 
tion ;  and  in  summer,  as,  he  said,  I  might  have 
seen,  his  pleasures  lay  in  the  rural  parts  of  the 
metropolis  and  its  suburbs  ;  he  was  at  that  time 
of  the  year  always  to  be  found  in  one  of  the  parks 
or  in  Kensington  gardens.  But  his  manner  of 
telling  his  stories  afforded  internal  evidence  of 
their  accuracy,  and  was  so  captivating  that  I 
thought  him  without  exception  the  pleasantest 
old  gentleman  I  had  ever  encountered. 

It  was  now  getting  dark,  the  windows  of  my 
drawing-room  were  open,  the  sashes  up,  and  the 
watchman's  cry  of  "  past  ten  o'clock"  was  the 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  63 

first  announcement  to  me  of  the  rapid  flight  ol 
Time  in  the  agreeable  society  of  my  friend. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  said  he  ;  "I  must  just 
look  in  at  Brooks's. 

"  What  sir,"  said  I,  recollecting  his  grotesque 
dance  under  the  wall  in  Blenheim-street,  "  over 
the  way  V 

"  No,"  replied  he,  "  in  St.  James's-street." 

"  Have  another  bottle  of  claret,"  said  I,  "  and 
a  devil — " 

At  this  word  my  friend  appeared  seriously  an- 
gry, and  I  heard  him  mutter  the  word  "  canni- 
balism." It  was  then  quite  dark,  and,  as  I  looked 
at  his  face,  I  could  discern  no  features,  but  only 
two  brilliant  orbs  of  bright  fire  glittering  like 
stars  ;  those  were  his  eyes,  the  light  from  which 
was  reflected  on  his  high  cheek-bones  and  the 
sides  of  his  nose,  leaving  all  the  rest  of  his  face 
nearly  black.  It  was  then  I  first  heard  a  thump- 
ing against  the  back  of  his  chair,  like  a  gentle- 
man "  switching  his  cane  ;" — I  began  to  wish  he 
would  go. 

*'  Sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  any  disguise 
with  me  is  useless  ;  I  must  take  my  leave  ;  but 
you  must  not  imagine  that  this  visit  was  unpre- 
meditated, or  that  our  meeting  was  accidental : 
you  last  night,  perhaps  unconsciously,  invoked 
my  aid  in  the  pursuit  to  which  you  have  so  long 


64  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

devoted  yourself.  The  desire  of  your  heart  is 
known  to  me  ;  and  I  know  that  the  instant  I 
leave  you,  you  will  return  to  your  fascinating 
study,  vainly  to  seek  that,  which  you  so  con- 
stantly languish  to  possess." 

"  I  desire" — I  was  going  to  say,  "  nothing  ;" 
but  the  pale  fire  of  his  dreadful  eyes  turned  sud- 
denly to  a  blood-red  color,  and  glistened  even 
more  brightly  than  before,  while  the  thumping 
against  the  back  of  his  chair  was  louder  than 
ever. 

"  You  desire,  young  gentleman,"  said  my 
visitor,  ''to  know  the  thoughts  of  others,  and 
thirst  after  the  power  of  foreseeing  events  that 
are  to  happen  :   do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  confess  sir,"  said  I,  convinced,  by  the 
question  and  by  what  had  already  passed,  that  he, 
whoever  he  was,  himself  possessed  the  faculty 
he  spoke  of — "  I  confess,  that  for  such  a  power  I 
have  prayed,  and  studied,  and  labored,  and " 

" You  shall  possess   it,"  interrupted  my 

friend.  "  Who  /  am,  or  what,  matters  little  : 
the  power  you  seek  is  wholly  in  my  gift.  You 
last  night,  as  I  have  just  said,  invoked  me  ; — you 
shall  have  it  upon  two  conditions." 

"  Name  them,  sir,"  said  I. 

"  The  first  is,  that  however  well  you  know 
what  is  to  happen  to  others,  you  must  remain  in 


THE     3LD    GENTLEMAN.  65 

ignorance  about  yourself,  except  when  connected 
with  them." 

"  To  that,"  said  I,  I  wil.  readily  agree." 

"  The  other  is,  that  whatever  may  be  the  con- 
duct you  adopt  in  consequence  of  possessing  the 
power  of  knowing  the  thoughts  of  others,  you 
are  never  to  reveal  the  fact  that  you  actually  do 
possess  such  a  power :  the  moment  you  admit 
yourself  master  of  this  supernatural  faculty,  you 
lose  it." 

"  Agreed,  sir,"  said  I ;  "  but  are  these  all  the 
conditions  ?" 

"  All,"  said  my  friend,  "  To-morrow  morn- 
ing when  you  awake,  the  power  will  be  your  own ; 
and  so,  sir,  I  wish  you  a  very  good  night." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  I,  anxious  to  be  better  assured 
of  the  speedy  fulfilment  of  the  wish  of  my  heart, 
(for  such  indeed  it  was,)  "  may  I  have  the  honor 
of  knowing  your  name  and  address  1" 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  said  the  old  gentleman  :  M  my 
name  and  address — Ha,  ha,  ha  ! — my  name  is 
pretty  familiar  to  you,  young  gentleman  ;  and  as 
for  my  address,  T  dare  say  you  will  find  your  way 
to  me,  some  day  or  another,  and  so  once  more 
good  night." 

Saying  which,  he  descended  the  stairs  and 
quitted  the  house,  leaving  me  to  surmise  who  my 
extraordinary  visitor  could  be  ; — I  never  knew ; 
6* 


66  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

but  I  recollect,  that  after  he  was  gone,  I  heard 
one  of  the  old  ladies  scolding  a  servant  girl  for 
wasting  so  many  matches  in  lighting  the  candles, 
and  making  such  a  terrible  smell  of  brimstone  in 
the  house.  I  was  now  all  anxiety  to  get  to  bed, 
not  because  I  was  sleepy,  but  because  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  going  to  bed  would  bring  me  nearer 
to  the  time  of  getting  up,  when  I  should  be  mas- 
ter of  the  miraculous  power  which  had  been  pro- 
mised me  :  I  rang  the  bell — my  servant  was  still 
out — it  was  unusual  for  him  to  be  absent  at  so 
late  an  hour.  I  waited  until  the  clock  struck 
eleven,  but  he  came  not ;  and  resolving  to  repri- 
mand him  in  the  morning,  I  retired  to  rest. 

Contrary  to  my  expectation,  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  consi- 
dering the  excitement  under  which  I  was  labor- 
ing, I  had  scarcely  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow 
before  I  dropped  into  a  profound  slumber,  from 
which  I  was  only  aroused  by  my  servant's  en- 
trance to  my  room.  The  instant  I  awoke  I  sat 
up  in  bed,  and  began  to  reflect  on  what  had 
passed,  and  for  a  moment  to  doubt  whether  it  had 
not  been  all  a  dream.  However,  it  was  daylight , 
the  period  had  arrived  when  the  proof  of  my 
newly  acquired  power  might  be  made. 

"  Barton,1'  said  I  to  my  man,  "  why  were  you 
not  at  home  last  night  !w 


THE   OLD    GENTLEMAN.  67 

"  I  had  to  wait,  sir,  nearly  three  hours,"  he 
replied,  "  for  an  answer  to  the  letter  which  you 
sent  to  Major  Sheringham." 

"  That  is  not  true,"  said  I ;  and  to  my  infinite 
surprise  I  appeared  to  recollect  a  series  of  occur- 
rences, of  which  I  never  had  previously  heard, 
and  could  have  known  nothing  :  "  you  went  to 
see  your  sweetheart,  Betsy  Collyer,  at  Camber- 
well,  and  took  her  to  a  tea-garden,  and  gave  her 
cakes  and  cider,  and  saw  her  home  again  :  you 
mean  to  do  the  same  thing  on  Sunday  ;  and  to- 
morrow you  mean  to  ask  me  for  your  quarter's 
wages,  although  not  due  till  Monday,  in  order  to 
buy  her  a  new  shawl." 

The  man  stood  aghast :  it  was  all  true.  I  was 
quite  as  much  surprised  as  the  man. 

"  Sir,"  said  Barton,  who  had  served  me  for 
seven  years  without  having  once  before  been 
found  fault  with,  "  I  see  you  think  me  unworthy 
your  confidence  ;  you  could  not  have  known  this, 
if  you  had  not  watched,  and  followed,  and  over- 
heard me  and  my  sweetheart :  my  character  will 
get  me  through  the  world  without  being  looked 
after  :  I  can  stay  with  you  no  longer  ;  you  will 
please,  sir,  to  provide  yourself  with  another  ser- 
vant." 

"  But,  Barton,"  said  I,  "  I  did  not  follow  or 
watch  you  ;  I 


68  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  not 
for  me  to  contradict ;  but,  you'll  forgive  me,  sir, 
I  would  rather  go — I  must  go." 

At  this  moment  I  was  on  the  very  point  of 
easing  his  mind,  and  retaining  my  faithful  servant 
by  a  disclosure  of  my  power,  but  it  was  yet  too 
new  to  be  parted  with  ;  so  I  affected  an  anger  I 
did  not  feel,  and  told  him  he  might  go  where  he 
pleased.  I  had,  however,  ascertained  that  the 
old  gentleman  had  not  deceived  me  in  his  pro- 
mises ;  and  elated  with  the  possession  of  my  ex- 
traordinary faculty,  I  hurried  to  the  operation  of 
dressing,  and  before  I  had  concluded  it,  my  ar- 
dent friend  Sheringham  was  announced  ;  he  was 
waiting  in  the  breakfast-room  :  at  the  same  mo- 
ment a  note  from  the  lovely  Fanny  Hayward  was 
delivered  to  me — from  the  divine  girl  who,  in  the 
midst  of  all  my  scientific  abstraction,  could 
"  chain  my  wordly  feelings  for  a  moment." 

"  Sheringham,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  as  I 
advanced  to  welcome  him,  "  what  makes  you  so 
early  a  visitor  this  morning?" 

"  An  anxiety,"  replied  Sheringham,  "  to  tell 
you  that  my  uncle,  whose  interest  I  endeavored  to 
procure  for  you,  in  regard  to  the  appointment  for 
which  you  expressed  a  desire,  has  been  com- 
pelled to  recommend  a  relation  of  the  Marquess; 
this  gives  me  real  pain,  out  I  thought  it  would  ba 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  69 

est  to  put  you  out  of  suspense  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

w  Major  Sheringham,"  said  I,  drawing  myself 
up  coldly,  "  if  this  matter  concerns  you  so  deeply, 
as  you  seem  to  imply  that  it  does,  might  I  ask 
why  you  so  readily  agreed  to  your  uncle's  propo- 
sition, or  chimed  in  with  his  suggestion,  to  be- 
stow the  appointment  on  this  relation  of  the 
Marquess,  in  order  that  you  might,  in  return  for 
it,  obtain  the  promotion  for  which  you  are  so 
anxious  V 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Sheringham,  evident- 
ly confused,  "  I — I — never  chimed  in  ;  my  un- 
cle certainly  pointed  out  the  possibility  to  which 
you  allude,  but  that,  was  merely  contingent  upon 
what  he  could  not  refuse  to  do." 

"  Sheringham,"  said  I,  "  your  uncle  has  al- 
ready secured  for  you  the  promotion,  and  you 
will  be  gazetted  for  the  lieutenant-colonelcy  of 
your  regiment  on  Tuesday.  I  am  not  to  be  told 
that  you  called  at  the  horse-guards,  in  your  way 
to  your  uncle's  yesterday,  to  ascertain  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  report  of  the  vacancy  which  you 
had  received  from  your  friend  Macgregor ;  or 
that  you,  elated  by  the  prospect  before  you,  were 
the  person,  in  fact,  to  suggest  the  arrangement 
which  has  been  made,  and  promise  your  uncle  to 
*  smooth  me  over'  for  the  present." 


70  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

"  Sir,"  said  Sheringham,  "  where  you  picked 
up  this  intelligence  I  know  not ;  but  I  must  say, 
that  such  mistrust,  after  years  of  undivided  inti- 
macy, is  not  becoming,  or  consistent  with  the 
character  which  I  hitherto  supposed  you  to  pos- 
sess. When  by  sinister  means  the  man  we  look 
upon  as  a  friend  descends  to  be  a  spy  upon  our 
actions,  confidence  is  at  an  end,  and  the  sooner 
our  intercourse  ceases  the  better.  Without  some 
such  conduct,  how  could  you  become  possessed 
of  the  details  upon  which  you  have  grounded 
your  opinion  of  my  conduct  ?M 

"  I "  and  here  again  was  a  temptation  to 

confess  and  fall ;  but  I  had  not  the  courage  to  do 
it.  "  Suffice  it,  Major  Sheringham,  to  say,  I 
knew  it ;  and,  moreover,  I  know,  that  when  you 
leave  me,  your  present  irritation  will  prompt  you 
to  go  to  your  uncle  and  check  the  disposition  he 
feels  at  this  moment  to  serve  me." 

"  This  is  too  much,  sir,"  said  Sheringham  ; 
"  this  must  be  our  last  interview,  unless  indeed 
your  unguarded  conduct  towards  me,  and  your 
intemperate  language  concerning  me,  may  ren- 
der one  more  meeting  necessary ;  and  so,  sir, 
here  ends  our  acquaintance." 

Saying  which,  Sheringham,  whose  friendship 
even  to  my  enlightened  eye  was  nearly  as  sincere 
as  any  other  man's,  quitted  my  room,  fully  con* 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  71 

vinced  of  my  meanness  and  imworthiness  :  my 
heart  sank  within  me  when  I  heard  the  door  close 
upon  him  for  the  last  time.  I  now  possessed  the 
power  I  had  so  long  desired,  and  in  less  than  an 
hour  had  lost  a  valued  friend  and  a  faithful  ser- 
vant. Nevertheless,  Barton  had  told  me  a  false- 
hood, and  Sheringham  was  gazetted  on  the  Tues- 
day night. 

I  proceeded  to  open  Fanny  Hayward's  note  ; 
it  contained  an  invitation  to  dinner  with  her  mo- 
ther, and  a  request  that  I  would  accompany  them 
to  the  opera,  it  being  the  last  night  of  the  last  ex- 
tra subscription.  I  admired  Fanny — nay,  I  al- 
most loved  her  ;  and  wThen  I  gazed  on  her  with 
rapture,  I  traced  in  the  mild  and  languishing  ex- 
pression of  her  soft  blue  eye,  approbation  of  my 
suit,  and  pleasure  in  my  praise.  I  took  up  my 
pen  to  answer  her  billet,  and  intuitively  and  in- 
stinctively wrote  as  follows  : 

44  Dear  Miss  Hay  ward, 
44 1  should  have  much  pleasure  in  accepting 
your  kind  invitation  for  this  evening,  if  it  were 
given  in  the  spirit  of  sincerity,  which  has  hitherto 
characterized  your  conduct ;  but  you  must  be 
aware  that  the  plan  of  going  to  the  opera  to-night 
was  started,  not  because  you  happen  to  have  a 
box,  but  because  you  expect  to  meet  Sir  Henrr 


72  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

Witherington,  with  whom  you  were  so  much 
pleased  at  Lady  G.'s  on  Thursday,  and  to  whom 
you  consigned  the  custody  of  your  fan,  on  condi- 
tion that  he  personally  returned  it  in  safety  at  the 
opera  to-night ;  as  I  have  no  desire  to  be  the  foil 
of  any  thing  in  itself  so  intrinsically  brilliant  as 
your  newly  discovered  baronet,  I  must  decline 
your  proposal. 

"  Your  mother's  kindness  in  sanctioning  the 
invitation  would  have  been  more  deeply  felt,  if  I 
did  not  know  that  the  old  lady  greatly  approves 
of  your  new  acquaintance,  and  suggested  to  you 
the  necessity  of  having  me  to  play  propriety 
during  the  evening,  call  up  her  carriage,  and  hand 
her  to  it,  while  Sir  Henry  was  making  the  amiable 
to  you,  and  escorting  you,  in  our  footsteps, 
Tell  Mrs.  Hayward  that,  however  much  she  and 
you  may  enjoy  the  joke,  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
admitted  as  a  ■  safe  man,'  and  that  I  suggest  hei 
offering  her  cotelette  to  Sir  Henry  as  well  as  hei 
company.     With  sympathetic  regards, 

Believe  me,  dear  Miss  Hayward, 
vours, 


This  note  I  immediately  despatched,  overjoyed, 
that  the  power  I  possessed  enabled  me  to  pene- 
trate the  flimsy  mask  with  which  Mrs.  Hayvvarti 
nad  endeavored  to  disguise  her  real  views  and  i 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  73 

tentions,  and  had  scarcely  finished  breakfast  be- 
fore Mr.  Fitman,  my  tailor,  was  ushered  in,  in 
company  with  a  coat  of  the  prevailing  color,  and 
Che  most  fashionable  cut :  in  less  than  five 
minutes  it  was  on,  and  the  collar,  the  cuffs,  the 
sleeves,  and  the  skirts,  became  at  once  the  ob- 
jects of  the  author's  admiration. 

"  Him  is  quite  perfect,  I  declare,"  said   the 
tailor,  who,  of  course,  was  a  foreigner. 

After  his  high  eulogium  upon  the  cloth,  I  told 
him  that  it  was  not  what  he  represented,  and  ac- 
tually detailed  the  place  at  which  he  had  bought 
it,  and  the  name  of  the  shopkeeper  who  had  sold 
it :  this  irritated  the  tailor,  who  became  extreme 
ly  insolent,  and  our  interview  ended  with  my 
kicking  him  down  stairs,  from  the  bottom  of 
which  he  proceeded  to  the  police-office,  in  my 
own  street,  and  procured  a  warrant  for  the  as- 
sault, by  which  I  was  compelled  to  appear  before 
the  magistrates  on  the  following  day,  knowing, 
before  I  went,  the  whole  course  the  case  would 
take,  and  the  decision  they  would  make,  in  pre- 
cisely the  terms  which  they  subsequently  adopted. 

Still,  however,  I  stood  alone  in  power,  unless 
indeed  my  old  friend  in  green  did  actually  share 
the  talent  I  possessed  ;  and  not  being  able  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  put  an  end  to  the  enjoyment 
of  an  object  I  had  so  long  labored  to  aitain,  1 
7 


74  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN, 

contented  myself  with  resolving  to  be  more  cau- 
tious in  future,  and  less  freely  or  frequently  ex- 
hibit my  mysterious  quility. 

After  the  little  disagreeable  adventure  I  have 
just  recounted,  I  thought  perhaps  I  had  better  pro- 
ceed to  the  Temple,  and  consult  my  lawyer,  who 
as  well  as  being  professedly  concerned  for  me, 
had  been  for  a  long  time  my  intimate  acquain- 
tance. I  knew  what  the  decision  of  the  justices 
would  be,  but  I  thought  the  attendance  of  a  legal 
adviser  would  make  the  affair  more  respectable 
in  the  eyes  of  the  public,  and  I  accordingly  bent 
my  steps  citywise. 

"YYhen  I  reached  the  Temple,  my  worthy  Max- 
well was  at  home  ;  as  usual  his  greetings  were 
the  warmest,  his  expressions  the  kindest.  I  ex- 
plained my  case,  to  which  he  listened  attentively, 
and  promised  his  assistance,  but  in  a  moment  I 
perceived  that,  however  bland  and  amiable  his 
conduct  to  me  might  appear,  he  had  several  times 
during  the  preceding  spring  told  his  wife  that  he 
believed  I  was  mad.  In  corroboration  of  which, 
I  recollected  that  she  had  on  the  occasion  of  my 
last  three  or  four  visits  placed  herself  at  the 
greatest  possible  distance  from  me,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  had  always  rung  the  bell,  to  have 
her  children  taken  away  the  moment  I  entered. 

In  pursuance  of  my  cautious  resolution,  how- 


THE   OLD    GENTLEMAN.  75 

ever,  I  took  no  notice  of  this  ;  but  when  I  spoke, 
of  the  length  of  time  which  had  elapsed  since  I 
had  seen  Mrs.  Maxwell,  1  found  out,  from  what 
was  passing  in  her  husband's  mind,  that  she  had 
determined  never  to  be  at  home  when  I  called,  or 
ever  dine  in  her  own  house  if  I  was  invited. 
Maxwell,  however,  promised  to  be  with  me  in 
the  morning,  in  time  to  attend  the  magistrates, 
and  I  knew  he  meant  to  keep  his  promise  ;  so 
far  I  was  easy  about  that  affair,  and  made  seve- 
ral calls  on  different  acquaintances,  few  of  whom 
were  at  heme — some  were — but  as  I  set  down 
the  exclusion  which  I  found  so  general  as  the  re- 
sult of  the  wild  abstracted  manner  consequent 
upon  my  abstruse  studies,  and  my  heart-wearing 
anxiety,  I  determined  now  to  become  the  gayest, 
most  agreeable  person  possible,  and  profiting  by 
experience,  keep  all  my  wisdom  to  myself. 

I  went  into  the  water-color  exhibition  at 
Charing-square ;  there  I  heard  two  artists  compli- 
menting each  other,  while  their  hearts  were  burst- 
ing with  mutual  envy.  There  too,  I  found  a 
mild,  modest-looking  lady,  listening  to  the  be- 
witching nothings  of  her  husband's  particular 
friend  ;  and  I  knew,  as  I  saw  her  frown  and  ab- 
ruptly turn  away  from  him  with  every  appearance 
of  real  indignation,  that  she  had  at  that  very  mo- 
ment mentally  '-esolved  to  elope  with  him  the  fol- 


76  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

lowing  night.  In  Harding's  shop  I  found  au- 
thors congregated  to  "  laugh  the  sultry  hours 
away,"  each  watching  to  catch  his  neighbor's 
weak  point,  and  make  it  subject  matter  of  mirth 
in  his  evening's  conversation.  I  saw  a  viscount 
help  his  father  out  of  his  carriage  with  every 
mark  of  duty  and  veneration,  and  knew  that  he 
was  actually  languishing  for  the  earldom,  and 
estates  of  the  venerable  parent  of  whose  health 
he  was  apparently  taking  so  much  care.  At 
Howell  and  James's  I  saw  more  than  I  could 
tell,  if  I  had  ten  times  the  space  afforded  me  that 
I  have,  and  I  concluded  my  tour  by  dropping  in  at 
•the  National  Gallery,  where  the  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen seemed  to  prefer  nature  to  art,  and  were 
actually  employed  in  looking  at  the  pictures,  and 
thinking  of  themselves. 

Oh !  it  was  a  strange  time  then,  when  every 
man's  heart  was  open  to  me,  and  I  could  sit  and 
see  and  hear  all  that  was  going  on,  and  know  the 
workings  of  the  inmost  feelings  of  my  associ- 
ates :  however,  I  must  not  detain  the  reader  with 
reflections. 

On  this  memorable  first  day  of  my  potency,  I 
proceeded  after  dinner,  to  the  opera,  to  satisfy 
myself  of  the  justness  of  my  accusation  against 
Fanny.  I  looked  up  to  their  box,  and  immedi- 
ately behind  my  once  single-minded  girl,  sat  Sir 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  77 

Henry  "VYitherington  himself,  actually  playing 
with  the  identical  fan,  of  which  I  had  instinctive- 
ly and  intuitively  written  without  ever  having 
seen  it  before.  There  was  an  ease  and  confi- 
dence about  the  fellow,  and  he  was  so  graceful 
and  good-looking,  and  Fanny  gazed  at  him  so 
long  and  so  frequently,  that  I  could  bear  it  no 
more,  and  thinking  that  after  our  long  intimacy 
my  letter  of  the  morning  might  have  gone  for 
nothing,  I  proceeded  to  their  box,  determined  to 
rally.  Of  Sir  Henry's  thoughts  about  me,  I  was 
utterly  ignorant,  for  he  did  not  even  know  my 
name,  so  that  I  ceuld  have  shared  none  of  his 
consideration.  I  was  aware,  however,  that  the 
mother  was  downright  angry,  and  Fanny  just  so 
much  piqued  as  to  make  our  reconciliation  a 
work  of  interest  and  amusement, 

I  certainly  did  not  perfectly  appreciate  Mrs 
Hay  ward's  feelings  towards  me,  for  when  as 
usual  I  entered  her  curtained  territory,  her  glance 
was  instantly  averted  from  me  to  Fanny,  who 
looked  grave,  and  I  found  was  seriously  annoyed 
at  my  appearance  :  however,  I  knew  I  had  influ- 
ence, and  with  my  commanding  power  I  resolved 
to  remain.  After  a  pause,  during  which  Sir  Hen- 
ry eyed  me,  and  the  ladies  alternately,  he  in- 
quired of  Mrs.  Hayward  if  I  were   a  friend  o{ 

tiers. 

7* 


78  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

"  Assuredly  not,  Sir  Henry,"  said  Mrs.  Hay 
ward.  "  I  did  know  the  person,  but  his  conduct 
renders  it  impossible  that  our  acquaintance 
should  continue." 

Fanny's  heart  began  to  melt ;  she  would  have 
caught  me  by  the  hand  and  bid  me  stay.  I  relied 
on  this,  and  moved  not. 

"  Pray  madam,"  said  Sir  Henry,  u  is  this  per- 
son's presence  here  disagreeable  to  you  ?" 

"  Particularly  so,  Sir  Henry,"  said  the  old  la- 
dy, with  all  the  malice  of  offended  dignity. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "  you  must  leave 
the  box." 

"Must  I,  indeed,  sir?"  said  I,  becoming  in 
turn  much  more  angry  than  the  old  lady. 

"  Pray  !  pray  !"  said  Fanny. 

"  Be  quiet,  child,"  said  her  obdurate  mother, 

"  Yes  sir,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "  must !  and  if  this 
direction  is  not  speedily  obeyed,  the  boxkeepe^ 
shall  be  called  to  remove  you." 

"  Sir  Henry  Ywtherington,"  said  I,  "  the  so- 
ciety you  are  in,  seals  my  lips  and  binds  my 
hands.  I  will  leave  the  box,  on  condition  that 
for  one  moment  only,  you  will  accompany  me." 

M  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Sir  Henry,  and  in  an  in- 
stant we  were  both  in  the  passage. 

I  drew  a  card  from  my  case,  and  putting  it  in- 
to his  hand,  said,  "  Sir  Henry  Vi  itherington* 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  79 

your  uncalled  for  interference  of  to-night  must 
be  explained  ;  here  is  the  card  of  one  who  has 
no  other  feeling  for  your  insolence  but  that  of 
the  most  ineffable  contempt."  Saying  which,  I 
walked  out  of  the  Opera-house,  and  he  rejoined 
the  ladies,  who  were  in  a  state  of  serious  agita- 
tion— Fanny  on  my  account,  and  her  mother  on 
account  of  her. 

This  affair  ended,  I  returned  once  more  to 
bed,  and  once  more  fell  into  a  deep  slumber,  from 
which  I  was  aroused  by  Barton,  who  informed 
me  that  Colonel  MacManton  was  waiting  to 
speak  a  few  words  to  me  in  the  drawing-room. 

Of  course  I  knew  the  object  of  /us  visit ;  he 
came  to  invite  me  to  Chalk  Farm,  where,  proba- 
bly, he  had  already  ordered  pistols  for  two,  and 
breakfast  for  four  ;  and  I  hastened  down  stairs, 
rather  anxious  than  otherwise  to  exhibit  my  per- 
son in  the  field  of  honor,  that  I  might  at  once 
become  the  friend  of  the  brave,  and  the  idol  of 
the  fair. 

I  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  found  my  vi- 
sitor waiting. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  colonel,  "  I  imagine,  after  what 
passed  last  night  between  you  and  my  friend,  Sir 
Henry  Witherington,  I  need  hardly  announce  the 
object  of  my  visit.  I  will  not  offend  you  by 
mentioning  the   alternative  of  a  meeting,   but 


80  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

merely  request  you  to  refer  me  to  some  friend  of 
yours,  with  whom  I  may  make  the  necessary  ar- 
rangements as  speedily  as  possible." 

"  Sir,"  replied  I,  speaking,  as  it  were,  not  of 
myself,  "  I  must  decline  a  meeting  with  Sir  Hen- 
ry Witherington ;  and  I  tell  you  in  the  outset  of 
the  business  that  no  power  will  induce  me  to  lend 
myself  to  any  arrangement  which  may  lead  to 
one." 

"  This  is  a  most  extraordinary  resolution,  sir," 
said  the  colonel.  "  I  can  assure  you,  although  I 
have  stated  the  matter  as  delicately  as  I  could, 
that  Sir  Henry  will  accept  of  no  apology  ;  nor 
indeed  could  I  permit  him  to  do  so,  even  if  he 
were  so  inclined." 

"  You  have  had  my  answer,  sir,"  said  I :  "  1 
refuse  his  challenge." 

"  Perhaps,"  inquired  the  colonel,  "  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  state  your  reason." 

"  Precisely  this,  sir,"  I  replied.  "  Our  quarrel 
and  rencontre  of  last  night  arose  out  of  the  per 
verseness  of  an  old  lady,  and  the  inconsiderate- 
ness  of  a  young  one :  they  both  regret  the  cir- 
cumstance as  much  as  I  do  ;  and  Sir  Henry  him- 
self, in  thus  calling  me  to  account,  is  obeying  the 
dictates  of  fashion  rather  than  those  of  feeling." 

"  But  that,  sir,"  said  the  colonel,  "  is  Sir  Hen 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  81 

ry's  affair.  I  must  endeavor  to  extract  some  bet- 
ter reason  than  this." 

"  Well  then,  sir,"  I  rejoined,  "  if  Sir  Henry 
meets  me  he  will  fall — it  must  be  so — and  I  will 
not  consent  to  imbrue  my  hands  in  the  blood  of 
a  fellow-creature  in  such  a  cause." 

"  Is  that  your  only  motive,  sir,  for  declining 
his  invitation  V9  exclaimed  the  gallant  colonel, 
somewhat  sneeringly. 

"  It  is." 

"  Then,  sir,  it  becomes  me  to  state,  in  direct 
terms,  that  Sir  Henry  Witherington  must  in  fu- 
ture consider  you  unworthy  to  fill  the  station  of  a 
gentleman  in  society  ;  and  that  he  will,  on  the 
first  opportunity,  exercise  the  only  means,  left 
him  under  the  circumstances,  of  satisfying  his 
offended  honor,  by  inflicting  personal  chastise- 
ment upon  you  wherever  he  meets  you." 

Saying  which,  the  colonel,  believing  me  in  his 
heart  to  be  the  arrantest  coward  alive,  took  his 
leave  :  but  however  annoyed  I  felt  at  the  world- 
ly consequences  of  this  affair,  I  gloried  in  my 
privilege  of  prescience,  which  had  informed  me 
of  the  certain  result  of  our  hostile  interview.  I 
then  prepared  myself  to  receive  my  lawyer,  and 
attend  the  magistrates: — that  affair  was  soon  set- 
tled—  the  tailor  entered  into  sureties  to  indict  me 
at  the  sessions,  and  I  knew  that  the  worshipful 


82  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

personages  on  the  bench  calculated  on  no  slight 
degree  of  punishment,  as  the  reward  of  my  cor- 
rection of  Fitman's  insolence. 

The  story  of  Sir  Henry's  challenge  soon  got 
wind.  Those  who  had  been  my  warmest  friends 
saw  something  extremely  agreeable  on  the  other 
side  of  the  way,  if  they  met  me  walking  ;  and  re- 
marks neither  kind  nor  gentle,  assailed  my  ears 
as  I  passed  the  open  windows  of  the  club-houses 
in  St.  James's-sireet.  Although  I  yet  had  not 
had  the  ill  fortune  to  meet  my  furious  antagonist, 
I  did  not  know  how  long  it  might  be  before  he 
would  return  to  town,  I  therefore  decided  upon 
quitting  it ;  and  driven,  as  it  were,  out  of  society, 
fixed  my  abode  in  one  of  the  prettiest  villages  in 
the  kingdom,  between  forty  and  fifty  miles  from 
the  metropolis. 

How  sweet  and  refreshing  were  the  breezes 
which  swept  across  that  fertile  valley,  stretching 
to  the  feet  cf  the  lofty  South  Downs — what  an 
expanse  of  view — rwhat  brightness  and  clearness 
of  atmosphere— what  serenity — what  calm — what 
comfort !  Here  was  I,  domesticated  with  an 
amiable  family,  whose  hearts  I  could  read,  and 
whose  minds  were  open  to  me  : — they  esteemed, 
they  loved  me — When  others  would  oppress  and 
hunt  me  from  the  world,  their  humble  home  was 
at  my  disposal. 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  83 

My  friends  had  been  married  many  years,  and 
one  only  daughter  was  their  care  and  pride.  She 
was  fresh  and  beautiful  as  a  May  morning,  and 
her  bright  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  as  she 
welcomed  me  to  the  cottage  ;  and  then,  I  knew, 
what  years  before  I  had  so  much  desired  to  know, 
but  never  yet  believed, that  she  loved  me.  "  This 
effect  of  my  knowledge  repays  me  for  all  that  is 
past,"  said  I ;  "  now  shall  I  be  truly  happy." 

I  soon  discovered,  however,  that  although 
Mary's  early  affection  for  me  (for  we  had  been 
much  together  in  our  younger  days)  still  reigned 
and  ruled  in  her  heart,  that  I  had  a  rival,  a  rival 
favored  by  her  parents,  for  the  common  and  ob- 
vious reason,  that  he  was  rich  ;  but  the  moment 
I  saw  him,  I  read  his  character,  and  saw  the  la- 
tent workings  of  his  mind — I  knew  him  for  a  vil- 
lain. 

The  unaffected  kindness  of  Mary  for  her  old 
playmate,  and  the  endearing  good-nature  with 
which  she  gathered  me  the  sweetest  flowers  from 
her  own  garden ;  the  evident  pleasure  with  which 
she  recurred  to  days  long  past,  and  the  marked 
interest  with  which  she  listened  to  my  plans  foi 
the  future,  soon  aroused  in  her  avowed  lover's 
breast  hatred  for  me  and  jealousy  of  her ;  and 
although  to  herself  and  the  family  his  manner 
remained  unchanged,  I,  who  could  fathom  depths 


84  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

beyond  the  ken  of  other  mortals,  watched  with 
dreadful  anxiety  the  progress  of  his  passion  ;  the 
terrible  workings  of  rage,  and  doubt,  and  disap- 
pointment, in  his  mind.  Mary  saw  nothing  of 
this  ;  and  considering  her  marriage  with  him  a 
settled  and  fixed  event,  gave  him  her  society  with 
the  unreserved  confidence  of  an  affianced  bride. 
And  although  I  knew  that  she  would  gladly  have 
left  his  arm  to  stroll  through  the  meadows  and 
the  groves  with  me  ;  that,  which  she  considered 
her  duty  to  her  parents,  and  to  her  future  hus- 
band, led  her  to  devote  a  great  proportion  of  her 
time  to  him.  Still  he  was  not  to  be  satisfied  with 
what,  he  could  not  but  feel,  was  a  divided  affec- 
tion ;  and  gradually  the  love  he  once  bore  her 
began  to  curdle  on  his  heart,  until  it  turned,  as  I 
at  once  foresaw,  to  deadly  hate  ;  and  the  pre- 
dominant passion  of  his  soul  was  revenge  on  me, 
and  on  the  ill-fated  innocent  girl  for  whom  he 
once  would  have  died. 

At  length  the  horrid  spectacle  presented  itself 
to  my  all-searching  and  all-seeing  eye  of  two 
"  minds  o'erthrown."  Mary,  as  the  period  fixed 
for  their  marriage  approached,  sickened  at  the 
coming  event ;  and  too  sincere,  too  inartificial 
for  concealment,  owned  to  me  the  dread  she  felt 
of  marrying  the  lover  accepted  by  her  parents  : 
there   she  paused,  but  I  knew  the  rest ;    and 


THE    OLD   GENTLEMAN.  85 

pressing  her  to  my  heart,  received  from  her  rosy- 
lips  the  soft  kiss  of  affection  and  acceptance. 
She  had  resolved  to  fly  with  me  from  the  home 
of  her  parents,  rather  than  fulfil  the  promise  they 
had  made.  My  prescribed  ignorance  of  my  own 
fate,  and  of  my  own  affairs,  hindered  my  knowing 
that  her  intended  husband  had  overheard  this 
confession.  We  had  fixed  the  hour  for  flight  the 
evening  following  that,  on  which  she  owned  hei 
love,  and  preceding  the  day  intended  for  his 
marriage.  The  blow  was  too  powerful  for  him 
to  resist :  rage,  jealousy,  disappointment,  and 
vengeance,  occupied  his  whole  mind  ;  and  the 
moment  that  my  individual  and  particular  con- 
duct was  disconnected  from  his  proceedings,  I 
discovered  his  desperate  intention  towards  my 
poor  Mary. 

That  evening — the  next  she  would  be  mine — 
hat  evening  we  had  agreed  that  Mary  should 
take  her  usual  walk  with  her  lover;  and  although 
he  had  appeared  gloomy  during  the  day,  I  had  de- 
tected nothing  in  his  thoughts  which  could  justly 
alarm  me  ;  but  when  the  evening  closed  in,  and 
he,  by  appointment,  came  to  fetch  her  for  their 
ramble,  then  my  power  enabled  me  to  foresee 
the  train  of  circumstances  which  were  to  follow. 
The  weapon  was  concealed  in  one  of  his  pockets 

which  was  to  give  his  victim  her  deathblow ;  its 
8 


86  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

companion,  which  was  to  rid  him  of  lift,  rested 
in  the  other.  The  course  of  his  thoughts,  of 
his  intentions,  was  before  me  :  the  spot  where 
he  intended  to  commit  the  double  murder  evi- 
dent to  my  sight.  As  she  was  quitting  the  gar- 
den to  meet  him,  I  rushed  after  her  ;  I  entreated, 
I  implored  her  not  to  stir.  I  foretold  a  storm — 
I  suggested  a  thousand  probable  ills  which  might 
befall  her  if  she  went :  but  she  told  me  that  she 
had  promised  to  meet  Charles,  and  go  she  must : 
it  was  for  the  last  time,  she  said — she  must  go. 
Was  I  jealous  of  her"? 

"  No,  no,  my  sweet  girl !"  said  I :  "  your  life, 
dearer  to  me  than  my  own,  depends  upon  your 
compliance  with  my  desire,  that  you  will  stay." 

"  My  life  V9  said  Mary. 

"  Yes,  beloved  of  my  heart !"  exclaimed  I ' 
"  your  cruel  lover  would  be  your  murderer  !" 

"  Charles  murder  me  !"  said  she,  half  wild, 
and  quite  incredulous  :  "  you  are  mad." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  know  it"  said  I,  still  holding 
her. 

"  This  is  the  height  of  folly,"  replied  Mary, 
calmly  :  "  pray  let  me  go — I  have  promised — it 
will  lull  suspicions — am  I  not  yours  V9 

•*  Yes,  yes,  and  go  you  shall  not." 

"  Tell  me  how  you  have  gained  this  informa- 
tion," said  she,  "  and  I  will  attend  to  it." 


THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN.  S7 

"  If  vou  go,  you  perish  !"  said  I.  "  Stay,  and 
the  rage  which  this  desperate  madman  now 
would  vent  on  you  will  turn  upon  himself." 

"  What  a  thought !"  said  the  half-distracted 
girl.     "  I'll  go  this  instant !" 

"  No,  no,  my  beloved  !  What  shall  I  say  to 
hinder  you  1" 

"  Tell  me  how  or  by  what  means  you  have  at- 
tained this  knowledge,  and  I  repeat,  I  will  stay." 

I  had  the  power  to  save  her  ;  by  confessing 
it,  I  should  preserve  her,  but  I  should  lose  my 
envied  faculty,  the  object  of  my  life — was  there 
a  moment  to  doubt  ? 

14  Mary,"  said  I,  "  I  have  a  supernatural 
knowledge  of  events — I  surrender  it — stay  ?M 

At  that  instant  the  report  of  a  pistol  near  the 
place  of  appointment  roused  our  attention  from 
ourselves  :  and  running  to  the  place  whence  the 
noise  proceeded,  we  found  the  unhappy  victim  of 
jealousy  stone  dead,  and  weltering  in  his  blood  : 
the  pistol  intended  to  take  my  Mary's  life  was 
yet  clenched  in  his  cold  hand. 

From  this  moment  my  power  was  gone,  and  I 
began  again  to  see  the  world  as  my  fellow-crea- 
tures do.  Mary  became  my  wife  with  the  con- 
sent of  her  parents  ;  and  as  I  was  returning  from 
church,  I  saw,  amongst  the  crowd  before  the  vil- 
lage inn,  my  old  friend  in  green,  who  accosted 


8S  THE    OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

me  with  great  good  nature,  and  congratulated  me 
upon  my  enviable  situation. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  I  thank  you  ;  and  I  thank  you 
tor  having  by  some  means  inexplicable  by  me. 
gratified  the  ruling  passion  of  my  heart.  In  the 
ignorance  of  my  nature,  I  desired  to  possess  a 
power  incompatible  with  the  finite  character  of 
the  human  mind.  I  have  now  learnt  by  experi- 
ence that  a  limit  is  set  to  human  knowledge  for 
the  happiness  of  man ;  and  in  future  I  shall  be 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  blessings  which  a  wise 
and  good  Providence  has  afforded  us,  without 
daring  to  presume  upon  the  bounty  by  which  we 
are  placed  so  pre-eminently  above  all  other  living 
creatures." 

"  A  very  moral  and  proper  observation,"  said 
my  friend,  evidently  displeased  at  my  moralizing. 

"  "Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Saying  which,  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  was 
lost  among  the  throng. 

I  have  several  times  since  seen  the  old  gentle- 
man walking  about  London,  looking  as  hale  and 
as  hearty  as  ever,  but  I  have  always  avoided 
him  ;  and  although  I  have  reason  to  believe  he 
has  seen  me,  more  than  once  ;  by  a  sort  of  tacit 
consent  we  never  acknowledge  each  other. 

I  returned  to  my  home,  blest  with  an  affec- 


THE    MOUNTAIN   DAISY.  89 

tionute  wife  ;  hoping  for  the  best,  profiting  by  the 
past,  enjoying  the  present,  and  putting  our  trust 
in  God  for  the  future. 


— oojoe— 


THE  MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 


A    TILLAGE  SKETCH. 
BY  MRS.  S.  C.  HALL. 

There  was  no  use  in  arguing  the  matter ;  it 
would  have  been  ridiculous  to  attempt  to  per- 
suade a  single  inhabitant  of  the  village,  high  or 
low,  that  our  Mountain  Daisy  was  any  thing 
short  of  absolute  perfection  ; — a  little  terrestrial 
angel — a — how  we  rummaged  our  perplexed 
brains  to  procure  an  appropriate  name  for  that 
dear  child,  when  first  she  came  to  Devon  Glade. 
Her  own  to  be  sure  was  a  very  pretty  one, 
Isabel  de  Mondalberto,  but  it  would  not  do  for 
i>«.  First,  we  called  her  the  Lily  of  Ahe  Vale ; 
8* 


90  THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

but  Mr.  Crabthorne,  (who  is  a  great  botanist,) 
sensibly  remarked  that  it  was  a  very  improper 
title,  because  a  lily  was  white,  and  Isabel  was 
very  brown  ;  the  lily  of  the  vale,  moreover,  de- 
lights in  valleys,  but  our  little  favorite's  cottage 
hung  like  a  bird-cage  over  one  of  the  Devon 
crags  ;  and  she  was  continually  forming  ac- 
quaintance with  all  the  wild  goats  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  Then  my  cousin  designated  her  The 
Forget-me-not : — We  asked  him  why  1  and  he 
very  foolishly  said,  because  Isabel's  eyes  were 
like  that  lovely  flower.  The  great  goose  ! — her 
eyes  were  black  !  And  such  eyes  !  no  artist  upon 
earth,  except  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  could  paint 
such  eyes  : — not  the  firm  set  English  greys,  so 
properly  governed  that  they  open  and  shut 
like  those  of  the  great  doll  in  Oxford  Street,  but 
living,  speaking  eyes — so  rich,  so  lustrous,  that 
when  they  were  suffused  with  tears  (and  they 
sometimes  were)  they  sparkled  like  diamonds  un- 
der rain  drops.  We  were  indeed  sadly  puzzled, 
but  at  last  the  matter  was  settled — she  was  meek 
as  she  was  beautiful — she  dwelt  among  rocks  and 
mountains  :  and  she  was  everlastingly  decking 
ner  pet  kid's  neck  with  daisy  garlands — so  we 
called  her — I  do  not  think  we  could  have  done 
better — "  the  Mountain  Daisy." 

"  The  Goat  Nest,"  (as  the  cottage  where  our 


THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY.  91 

Daisy  dwelt  had  long  been  designated,)  after  the 
deatn  of  old  Simon  Mattocks,  was  for  a  consider- 
able period  without  a  tenant ;  it  was  so  wildly 
situated,  and  so  difficult  of  access,  that  the  land- 
lord would  have  pulled  it  down,  were  it  not  that 
viewed  from  the  glade,  it  formed  a  wild  and  beau- 
tiful object.  The  larch,  the  fir,  the  oak,  and 
here  and  there  the  spreading  beech,  afforded  it 
shelter  from  sun  and  storm ;  and  the  ledge  of 
mixed  shingle  and  sward  on  which  it  rested  was 
so  carefully  cultivated  by  our  little  mountaineer, 
that  even  in  the  valley's  inmost  bosom,  the  rose 
and  honeysuckle  did  not  blossom  or  twine  more 
luxuriantly  than  over  the  Goat  Nest.  The  gar- 
den was  speckled  with  geraniums  and  myrtles, 
«and  such  delicious  thyme  !  that  her  bees— na- 
ture's wild  and  useful  commoners — seldom 
winged  over  the  low  rustic  wall  that  was  more 
than  half  covered  by  virgin's-bower  and  gigantic 
wall-flowers,  but  hummed  and  worked  in  their 
own  realm,  setting  a  sweet  example  of  industry, 
cheerfulness,  and  contentment.  A  very  high 
rock  towered  behind  the  cottage,  and  from  it 
poured  a  stream  of  the  coldest,  purest  water, 
which  sometimes  gurgled  and  made  its  way 
through  the  tangled  brushwood,  wrangling  with 
every  bush  and  bramble  that  intercepted  its 
course,   then  dashing  over  the  fallen  trees  and 


92  THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

sharp  stones,  with  the  impetuosity  of  a  young 
lordling  at  his  first  fox  hunt,  and  finally  continu- 
ing its  course  in  the  valley,  over  a  bed  of  spark- 
ling sand,  with  as  much  sweetness  and  placidity 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  disturb  it  in  its 
path.  The  Daisy's  greatest  enjoyment  was  to 
take  off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  with  no 
other  living  companions  than  her  goats,  accom- 
pany this  mountain  stream  on  its  way  ;  now  in, 
now  out  of  the  water  ;  now  gathering  the  tas- 
selled  hazel,  the  broad  fern,  or  the  clustering  wild 
grape  :  or  in  spring,  peeping  into  the  nest  of  th? 
soaring  lark,  or  scattering  crumbs  for  the  familiar 
robin,  which  soon  learnt  to  follow  her  steps,  and 
pour  forth  its  thanks  along  every  path  she  trod. 

Mid-way  down  the  hill,  there  was  a  somewhat 
level  piece  of  ground,  called  "  the  Rest,"  where 
the  village  girls  washed  their  clothes  ;  and  there, 
one  morning,  I  surprised  my  little  heroine,  lean- 
ing against  a  tub  that  some  one  had  left  on  the 
edge  of  the  bank,  her  dress  more  off  than  on,  and 
her  eyes  upturned,  with  a  sweet,  yet  melancholy 
expression,  which  I  shall  never  forget ;  her  kid 
was  drinking  at  her  feet,  but  there  was  no  gar- 
land round  its  neck. 

4»  What  a  charming  morning,  Isabel,"  said  I : 
"  but,  love,  you  will  catch  cold  :  where  are  you? 
shoes  V 


THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY.  93 

«  I  left  them  at  the  cottage,  Madam  ;  and  I  do 
not  fear  cold  :"  was  her  reply. 

"  There  is  something  the  matter,  my  dear,"  I 
continued,  for  she  turned  from  me  to  hide  the 
tears  that  were  gathering  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,  only  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you  ;  my 
dear  grandmamma  is  not  well,  and  I  wanted  to 
send  to  you,  and  she  would  not  let  me  ;  but  I 
strolled  down,  and  was  waiting  for  some  one  who 
would  take  a  message  into  the  village  to  you ;  for 
I  fear  she  is  very  ill,  worse  than  she  seems." 

There  was  a  mystery  about  the  inhabitants  ot 
the  Goat  Nest  which  completely  teased  the  gos- 
sips of  Devon  Glade.  Madame  de  Mondalberto, 
our  Daisy's  grandmamma,  was  hardly  ever  seen 
in  the  village  ;  and  her  only  attendant,  a  stiff  el- 
derly Italian  woman,  either  did  not,  or  pretended 
not  to,  understand  English.  I  had  severaltimes 
clambered  up  to  her  dwelling  and  visited  the  old 
lady,  and  was  always  received  by  her  with  that 
dignified  politeness,  which  showed  more  ac- 
quaintance with  courts  than  cottages.  When, 
indeed,  she  thanked  me  for  the  kindness  shown 
to  our  beloved  Daisy,  the  tears  used  to  rush  to 
her  eyes,  and  a  warm  and  affectionate  glow 
spread  over  her  calm  and  majestic  features: 
but  lately,  either  from  illness  or  sonie  secret 
cause,  she  was  very  seldom  seen.     When  I  en- 


94  THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

tered  the  cottage,  the  servant  seemed  as  stately 
as  the  mistress. — "  Do  not,  my  own  dear  grand- 
mamma, be  angry  with  me  for  asking  our  kind 
friend  to  come  and  see  you.  See,  mamma,  she 
has  climbed  the  mountain — she  is  so  good  :  and 

do, — oh,  do  tell  her "      "  My  dear  Isabel," 

said  the  courtly  lady,  "  I  am  proud  of  the  honor 
done  me  ;  and  hope  I  shall  always  be  able  to  re- 
ceive your  kind  friend  as  she  deserves  ;  though 

this  poor  cottage  is  not "  the  color  flushed 

her  pale  cheek,  and  she  burst  into  an  uncon- 
strained flood  of  tears.  Isabol  looked  at  her  ven- 
erable parent  with  an  indescribable  expression, 
and  dropping  on  her  knees  besought  her  to  be 
calm,  and  repeatedly  assured  her,  that  she  did  not 
mean  to  offend,  by  bringing  me  there.  "  Offend ! 
no,  my  child  ;  but,"  she  added,  turning  to  me, 
"there  are  times,  there  are  circumstances, 
which,  particularly  during  illness,  oblige  us  to 

feel  the  presence  of  our  dearest  friends  a 

pray  be  seated,  Madam,  and  forgive  an  old  wo- 
man, who  is  unable  either  to  command  or  to  ex- 
press her  feelings — "  I  lamented  her  illness, 
and  pressed  my  services  as  long  and  as  earnest- 
ly as  I  could  ;  but  she  declined  my  advances, 
and  my  drooping  Daisy  saw  me  depart  without 
being  of  the  slightest  use  to  her  venerable  pa- 
rent.    The  next  evening,  the  stiff  Italian  came 


THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY.  95 

to  me,  and  for  the  first  time  spoke  something  like 
English.  I  quickly  understood  that  Madame 
de  Mondalberto  was  much  worse,  and  wished  to 
see  me.  I  found  her  very  ill,  but  supported  in 
an  old  oak  chair  by  pillows,  and  dear  Daisy 
sitting  on  a  little  stool  at  her  feet ;  a  large  silver 
rosary  lay  on  the  table,  and  a  Latin  breviary  was 
open  on  her  lap.  I  had  taken  some  fine  grapes, 
and  some  cordials  in  my  little  basket,  and  my 
favorite's  eyes  sparkled  brightly,  when  I  pre- 
sented my  offering. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  Madam,"  she  said, 
44  that  I  may  have  an  opportunity  of  conquering 
my  foolish  pride,  which  iigw  ill  becomes  me,  and 
at  the  same  time  of  proving  that  I  value  and  re- 
spect you." 

The  lady  thought  she  Avas  dying ;  and  she  was 
anxious  to  inform  me  who  my  beloved  Daisy 
was,  that  if  it  pleased  God  to  call  her,  the  moun- 
tain girl  might  have  one  friend,  in  what  her  pa- 
rent knew  was  a  cold,  a  very  cold  world. 

Madame  de  Mondalberto,  a  widow  before 
most  women  are  wives,  was  a  native  of  Florence  ; 
she  had  one  son,  who,  at  a  very  early  period  of 
life,  went  to  the  East,  with  the  hope  of  amassing 
wealth  sufficient  to  retrieve  the  honors  of  a  fallen 
house.  He  there  married  a  young  and  beautiful 
Hindoo  girl,  which    created   so  much   enmity 


96  THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

towards  him  on  the  part  of  his  rich  and  powerful 
relations,  that  they  soon  ceased  all  communication 
with  him, — all  but  his  mother,  to  whom  he  sub- 
sequently consigned  his  first-born  child,  and  who, 
in  consequence  of  her  receiving  "  the  little  pa- 
gan," as  they  called  the  infant  traveller,  under 
her  protection,  became  so  much  persecuted, 
especially  by  her  brother,  who  was  Abbot  of  II 
Santo  Pietro,  that  she  resolved  to  visit  England, 
where  indeed  she  had  before  resided  ;  and  there, 
with  one  faithful  attendant,  she  was  supported 
by  the  money  received  for  the  maintenance  and 
education  of  Isabel.  Her  health  was  very  much 
impaired,  and  she  preferred  the  calm  retirement 
of  Goat  Nest,  where  she  had  leisure  to  impart 
to  her  beloved  child  the  information  she  her- 
self had  acquired  in  her  long  intercourse  with  the 
world. 

More  than  a  year  had  elapsed  without  Madame 
de  Mondalberto's  hearing  from  India,  and  her 
heart  fainted  within  her  when  she  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  her  dear  son's  death  :— forgetful  of 
his  mother  and  child  she  knew  he  never  could 
be.  .  But  absolute  want  awaited  her  ;  and  for 
many  weeks  she  had  been  supported  by  the 
goats'  milk,  and  the  wild  fruit  and  vegetables 
that  her  grand-child's  affection  procured  from 
the   mountains,  in  the  dark   twilight  or  early 


THE    MOUNTAIN   DAISY.  97 

morning.  "  She  could  not  work,  to  beg  she  was 
ashamed  ;"  and  she  would  have  perished  for  the 
want  of  proper  nutriment  had  not  her  anxiety  for 
Isabel  conquered  her  other  feelings,  and  obliged 
her  to  confess  her  real  situation.  By  God's 
blessing,  with  proper  care,  she  seemed  gradu- 
ally recovering  ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  wear 
ing  and  wasting  anxiety  of  her  spirit,  her  body 
would  have  gained  its  usual  strength.  The 
first  effort  she  made,  when  she  got  a  little  better, 
was  to  reach  the  summit  of  West  Crag,  a  spot 
that  overlooked  the  high  road,  and  sit  and  watch 
the  distant  postman  wending  his  solitary  way 
round  the  side  of  the  mountain  into  the  glade  ; 
but  though  no  letter  arrived,  each  succeeding 
day  found  the  old  lady  at  the  same  spot ;  and 
she  was  rendered  miserable  also  from  the  fear 
that  she  should  not  live  to  repay  the  money  she 
had  borrowed,  for  on  no  other  terms  would  she 
accept  assistance. 

One  fine  evening,  on  the  West  Crag,  I  had 
been  reading  to  her  St.  Paul's  beautiful  definition 
of  charity, — for  although  we  did  not  worship  in 
the  same  manner,  we  worshipped  the  same  one 
and  true  God.  Daisy  had  been  listening  attentive  - 
ly,  and  was  just  then  busily  employed  in  adorn- 
ing the  pet  kid  with  her  favorite  flowers,  when  her 
attention  was  attracted  by  a  splendid  carriage, 


98  THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY, 

with  outriders  and  gay  liveries,  rolling  beneath  us 
and  at  length  stopping  at  the  only  inn  in  the  vil- 
lage. Really  my  heroine  had  less  curiosity  than 
most  of  her  sex  for  she  never  cared  who  or 
what  any  body  was  ;  but  this  equipage  was  so 
very  grand,  so  superior  even  to  the  county  mem- 
bers at  the  time  of  the  grand  election,  that  the 
stiff  Italian  extended  her  neck  to  ascertain  which 
road  the  carriage  would  next  take.  But  our 
astonishment  increased  when  we  saw  the  horses 
taken  off,  and  we  occupied  full  ten  minutes  in 
conning  the  who  and  where-all  of  the  matter. 

Madame  returned  to  her  cottage,  but  Daisy 
would  accompany  me  on  my  way  home.  "  Come 
down  by  the  stream,  pray  do,"  said  the  dear  girl, 
"  and  you  need  not  wet  your  feet."  "  It  is  too 
far  about,  love  ;  and  see,  the  grey  evening  is 
closing."  "  Oh,  never  mind,  I  will  take  you  be- 
yond '  the  Rest,'  and  you  know  I  can  run  up  the 
rocks  like  a  kidling."  On  we  went,  and  had  just 
reached  "  the  Rest,"  when  a  rustling  in  the 
brush-wood  attracted  our  attention.  "  Holloa ! 
who's  there?'  said  my  little  friend,  with  her 
usual  intrepidity.  The  trees  divided,  and  a  gen- 
tleman in  a  rich  travelling  dress  inquired  the  path 
to  the  Goat's  Nest — "  Oh,  Sir,  you  do,  you  do,  I 
am  sure,  know  something  of  my  dear  Papa  ;  Oh 
do,  Oh  do,  tell  me  !"  and  the  child  clung  almost 


THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY.  99 

convulsively  to  the  stranger's  cloak.  "  You 
are" — "  Isabel  de  Mondalberto,"  I  exclaimed— 
and  in  another  instant  my  Daisy  was  folded  in  her 
father's  arms.  We  managed  to  prepare  our  aged 
friend  in  some  degree  for  the  reception  of  her 
son.  The  Signor  easily  accounted  for  the  delay 
which  had  occurred.  His  uncle,  the  Abbot,  at 
his  death,  felt,  and  acknowledged  the  injustice 
he  had  done  his  nephew,  and  contrived  to  leave 
him  much  of  the  wealth  he  had  accumulated. 
The  Signor  wrote,  and  sent  an  increased  remit- 
tance to  his  parent,  before  the  usual  time,  men- 
tioning that  he  was  leaving  the  East  to  take 
possession  of  the  property  bequeathed  him  in  his 
r.ative  land,  but  the  letter  never  reached  its  des- 
tination. His  beloved  wife — his  dear  Zara — for 
whom  he  had  suffered  loss  of  family  and  fortune 
for  so  many  years,  died  on  the  passage,  and  our 
poor  Isabel  had  no  mother.  The  wide  waters 
closed  over  the  being  whom  her  child,  in  a  dis- 
tant country,  had  so  fondly  loved. 

Our  favorite's  fortune  had  now  been  indeed 
changed  ;  but,  though  happy  to  see  her  almost 
unknown  parent,  Daisy  had  many  mortifications 
to  encounter.  The  Signor  was  a  proud,  and 
somewhat  austere  man,  and  had  lived  too 
Jong  in  India  not  to  have  imbibed  much  of  the 
indolent  and  haughty  character  of  the  residents 


100  THE    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

of  that  gorgeous  country,  which  at  first  made  one 
fear  that  he  had  but  little  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  in  his  bosom.  He  delighted  in  seeing 
his  child's  black  clustering  curls,  which  till  then 
had  known  no  other  confinement  than  a  wreath 
of  hedge-roses,  banded  with  pearls  ;  and  her  feet, 
which,  to  own  the  truth,  were  somewhat  more 
expanded  than  nature  intended,  were  crammed 
into  tight  French  shoes,  with  embroidered  san- 
dals ;  that  was  a  trial,  but  the  saddest  one  of  all 
was  her  being  forced  to  quit  Goat  Nest,  and  ac- 
company her  father  and  grandmother  to  Paris. 
Only  fancy  my  dear  Mountain  Daisy  transplant- 
ed, with  all  the  purity  of  innocence  and  virtue 
fresh  about  her,  to  that  hot-bed  of  thoughtless- 
ness and  folly ! — however,  so  it  was.  We  ail 
urged  how  dangerous  it  would  be  to  remove  her 
from  the  mountain  breezes  to  a  crowded  me- 
tropolis, but  our  remonstrances  were  in  vain  ;  and 
the  only  consolation  left  us  was,  permission  to 
put  old  Lucy  Green  into  the  cottage  to  take  care 
of  it,  and  to  leave  her  goats  under  my  charge. 
Bitter  tears  were  shed  at  parting  ;  and  the  Count 
himself  promised  very  faithfully  that  he  would 
soon  bring  back  our  sweet  flower  if  she  continued 
to  wish  it.  His  liberality  to  our  villagers  was 
unbounded ;  and,  indeed,  there  were  cases  in 
which  it  did  no  good,  for  some  of  the  young 


dames  bought  silk  gowns,  which  ihe  old  people 
all  said  was  not  becoming  their  station.  I  heard 
often  from  our  beloved  girl ;  and  perceived  that 
though  her  mind  and  heart  remained  uncontami- 
nated,  her  health  suffered  from  confinement  and 
constant  application.  Madame  de  M.  also,  like 
my  friend  Miss  Mitford's  Mademoiselle  Therese 
(who,  by  the  way,  steals,  I  suspect,  almost  as 
many  hearts  as  Miss  Mitford  herself,)  found  Pa- 
ris a  better  place  to  talk  about,  than  to  live  in  ; 
and  at  last  our  friends  returned  to  Devon  Glade. 
I  met  my  sweet  child  at  the  coach  door ;  and 
when  she  threw  her  pale  brown  arms  around  my 
neck,  and  pressed  her  cold  lips  to  my  cheek,  I 
knew  and  felt  that  Isabel  had  suffered  much  ill- 
ness. "  I  shall  soon  be  better,  my  dear  friend; 
I  shall  soon  be  quite  well."  The  goats  heard 
her  soft  voice,  and  came  scampering  towards 
her  ;  and  her  dear  grandmamma  was  pleased  to 
see  those  affectionate  animals  caress  her  favorite. 
The  village  was  in  an  uproar  !  such  bonfires — 
such  bell  ringing — there  was  nothing  done  for  a 
week.  And  to  crown  the  matter,  Prospect  Hill 
was  to  be  sold.  The  very  thing  for  all  parties. 
Grand  and  majestic  enough  for  the  Signor  and 
his  mother  :  and  quite  as  romaruic  as  my  Moun- 
tain Daisy  could  wish. 

Her  goats  are  permitted  to  wander  from  the 
9* 


10&  l-ltR    MOUNTAIN    DAISY. 

Park  to  their  usual  haunts  ;  and*  their  mistress 
looks  so  fresh  and  beautiful  after. her  moun- 
tain excursions,  that  I  positively  detected  her  fa- 
ther in  the  very  act  of  untwisting  some  crimson 
silk,  and  helping  her  to  tie  a  garland  of  wild 
flowers  around  the  neck  of  the  great-grand-kid 
of  her  old  favorite  goat,  while  his  eye  rested  with 
an  expression  of  love  and  admiration  on  the  no- 
ble face  of  his  daughter.  He  confessed,  also, 
the  other  day,  that  notwithstanding  its  murky 
skies,  its  uncertain  seasons,  and  the  somewhat 
sulky  disposition  of  its  inhabitants,  England  Is  as 
comfortable  a  country  as  he  could  live  in ;  par- 
ticularly when  brightened  by  the  smiling  looks  of 
his  Mountain  Daisy, 


A  WALK  IN  THE  TEMPLE  GARDENS 

IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  1827. 
Affectionately  inscribed  to  her  Companions  in  that  Walk 

BY  AMELIA  OPIE. 

There  is  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  visiting 
the  scenes  which  we  first  saw  in  early  youth, 
when  youth  has  long  been  past,  and  when  life, 
which  then  stretched  widely,  and  brightly,  before 
us,  its  pains  as  yet  unknown,  and  its  pleasures 
only  too  vividly  anticipated,  is  drawing,  compa- 
ratively to  a  close. 

I  have  recently  experienced  this  pensive  grati- 
fication while  walking  in  the  Temple  Gardens — 
a  spot  which  I  first  visited  in  my  youthful  days, 
and  with  a  bridal  party  ;  and  I  had  scarcely  taken 
one  turn  on  the  walk  along  the  river  side,  before 
that  long-forgotten  scene  appeared  in  all  its 
gaiety  to  "  my  mind's  eye."     I  saw  the  beautiful 


104       A  WALK  IN   THE   TEMPLE  GARDENS. 

bride  with  her  bloom  heightened  by  a  sense  oi 
happiness,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  admira- 
tion which  followed  her  steps  ;  I  also  remember- 
ed, that  even  in  those  days  of  my  own  unblighted 
expectations,  the  instability  of  human  enjoyment 
was  ere  long  painfully  forced  upon  me  ;  for  the 
lovely  being  in  whose  bridal  train  I  had  followed 
in  those  cheerful  gardens,  was,  ere  another  year 
had  revolved,  a  mother,  and  a  corpse  ! 

While  recalling  these  visions  of  vanished  days, 
I  fell  into  thoughtful  silence,  till  I  was  roused 
from  my  reverie  by  the  admiration  which  my 
companions  expressed  of  the  increased  beauty 
thrown  over  the  scene  by  the  gradual  approach 
of  twilight. 

But,  lovely  as  was  the  present  view,  it  could 
not  entirely  wean  me  from  contemplation  of  the 
past,  and  I  began  to  put  them  in  comparison. 

Then  a  full  tide  of  ever-changing  human  be- 
ings was  running  along  its  walks — now,  my  com- 
panions and  myself  were  almost  its  only  visit- 
ants : — then  it  was  enlivened  by  the  bright  sun 
of  a  summer  afternoon — now  it  was  clothed  in 
the  pale  tinted  shadows  of  evening,  and  the  magic 
of  light  and  shade  was  rapidly  spreading  around, 
while  the  view  from  the  bank  of  the  river  was 
acquiring  increasing  solemnity  and  beauty ;  for 
the  mysterious  power  of  twil'ght  was  making  the 


A  WALK  IN  THE   TEMPLE  GARDENS.       105 

tall  columns  of  the  shot  manufactories  appear  as 
grand  as  the  more  distant  towers  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  the  lights  on  the  graceful  arch  of  the 
Waterloo  Bridge  were  reflecting  themselves  in 
the  clear  waves  beneath ;  still,  it  was  not  yet  dark 
enough  for  the  windows  of  the  rooms  around  to 
be  closed,  nor  for  candles  to  be  lighted  ;  when, 
as  we  were  walking  opposite  the  high  range  of 
chambers,  on  the  outside  of  the  garden  gates, 
which  fronts  the  river,  I  observed  at  the  very  top 
of  the  building  one  single  globe  of  burning  light, 
but  I  could  not  discover  whether  it  was  outside 
or  inside  the  window.  My  companions,  how- 
ever, assured  me  that  it  was  only  a  globe  lamp, 
standing,  no  doubt,  on  the  table  of  the  person 
to  whom  the  room  belonged.  But  while  the 
other  rooms  in  these  vast  buildings  lay  darkened 
in  the  twilight,  this,  and  this  alone,  was  illumi 
nated  :  therefore,  as  we  argued,  the  student  who 
occupied  that  apartment  (if  student  he  was)  must 
be  peculiarly  diligent  and  praiseworthy,  and  as 
soon  as  we  had  so  judged  of  the  owner  of  the 
lamp,  our  imaginations  took  fire. 

One  fancied  him  a  young  barrister,  who  was 
looking  over  his  first  brief,  with  anxious  and 
pleasing  diligence  ;  a  second  suggested  that  he 
was  possibly  a  Henry  Kirke  White — that  be- 
loved, and  lamented  son  of  genius, — and  was 


106       A  WALK  IN   THE    TEMPLE   GARDENS. 

burning  the  evening  as  well  as  the  midnight  oil, 
because  he  was  jealous  of  every  minute  which 
did  not  tend  to  the  improvement  of  time,  and  to  a 
preparation  for  eternity.  While  we  willingly 
adopted  this  pleasing  suggestion,  we  gazed  on 
the  lamp  with  a  sort  of  reverent  interest,  and  one 
of  us  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  ascend  the 
staircase  and  visit  the  interesting  student.  In 
short  we  were  uttering  a  great  deal  of  amusing 
nonsense,  and  were  watching  the  lonely  light 
-vith  an  absorbing  curiosity,  when  one  of  my 
companions  exclaimed,  "  I  see  a  face  ;"  but,  be- 
fore the  rest  of  us  could  see  it,  it  had  disappear- 
ed ;  presently,  another  cried  out,  "  I  see  a 
hand  ;"  and  the  friend  who  first  spoke  observed, 
"  Yes  ;  I  too  see  a  hand,  and  it  is  lighting  a  se- 
gar!  !  /" 

In  a  moment  the  sweet  illusion  was  dissolved  ; 
and  in  the  owner  of  the  lamp  we  beheld,  instead 
of  the  pale,  interesting,  intellectual,  self-denying 
student,  a  pampered  sensualist,  indulging  in  Asi- 
atic luxury,  and  enjoying  his  indolent  leisure  and 
his  segar  after  a  probably  luxurious  repast,  alone, 
or  with  a  companion  as  earthly  and  indolent  as 
himself! 

Perhaps  we  were  a  little  mortified  at  this  dis- 
covery ;  but  we  could  not  help  indulging  in  the 
most  innocent  of  all  laughter — laughter  at  our- 


A  WALK   IN   THE    TEMPLE  GARDENS.        107 

selves,  for  our  fantastic  fancies  :  we  had  also 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  as  we  had  not 
degraded,  but  exalted  the  unconscious  object  of 
them,  we  had  neither  injured  ourselves  nor  him 
by  the  short-lived  delusion. 

By  me,  however,  the  little  romance  of  the 
lamp  was  not  soon  forgotten,  and  it  made  me  fall 
into  a  train  of  serious  thought  and  moral  reflec- 
tions. 

I  could  not  but  remember  with  some  bitterness 
of  spirit  and  humiliation  of  heart,  how  often  de- 
lusions of  the  imagination;  like  those  of  the  stu- 
dent and  his  lamp,  had  strewed  thorns  on  my 
path  of  life  ;  but  that,  unlike  the  temporary  de- 
lusion in  the  gardens,  this  fallacious  fancy  had 
sometimes  clothed  my  days  in  gloom,  and  my 
pillow  in  wakefulness.  I  could  not  but  own,  that 
I  had  often  thrown  over  both  near  and  distant  ob- 
jects, the  glow  of  my  embellishing  imagination, 
and  then  had  reason  to  mourn  over  the  different 
view  in  which  they  appeared  to  me  when  the  so- 
ber realities  of  life  had  stript  them  of  their  delu- 
sive covering,  and  they  stood  before  me  as  they 
really  were. 

But  was  this  infirmity  of  nature,  and  were  these 
pernicious  illusions  confined  to  me  alone  1  Were 
not  the  beloved  companions  of  my  walk  in  the 
Temple  Garden,  as  liable  to  be  deceived  as  I 


108       A  WALK  IN   THE   TEMPLE   GARDENS. 

had  been  1  Were  they  never  to  experience  again 
illusions  and  delusions  like  those  of  the  lamp? 
Was  I  alone  exposed  to  be  the  victim  of  fancies 
which,  though  equally  absurd,  might  not  be  so 
harmless  nor  so  innocent  1  Alas  !  I  could  only 
answer  the  question  with  a  peremptory  no,  espe- 
cially as  their  youth  was  as  yet  in  its  prime,  and 
they  had  not  the  shield  of  experience. 

"  Let  me  then,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  endeavor 
to  impress  the  remembrance  of  our  evening  walk 
more  deeply  on  their  youthful  minds,  by  com- 
mitting an  account  of  :t  to  paper,  and  drawing  a 
moral  from  the  incident  by  which  it  was  distin- 
guished V9 

Yes,  dear  young  friends,  I  could  not  be  satis- 
fied till  I  had  fulfilled  this  task  ;  and  often,  since 
we  parted,  as  I  was  wandering  in  distant  scenes, 
that  solitary  lamp  has  beamed  before  my  fancy 
as  if  inviting  me  to  finish  my  manuscript,  and  re- 
proving me  for  my  neglect. 

The  moral  which  I  would  draw  from  our  ad- 
venture in  the  garden  is  this — the  necessity  of 
checking  every  tendency  to  overrate  the  value  of 
persons,  pursuits,  and  things,  and  the  propriety 
of  endeavoring  to  see  them  as  they  really  are. 

I  would  advise  you  to  examine  every  thing 
with  the  disc  •iminating  and  sober  eye  of  truth — 
supplicating  at  the  same  time  the  God  of  all  truth 


A  WALK   IN   THE    TEMPLE  GARDENS.        109 

to  bestow  upon  you  what  He  alone  can  give — 
power  to  sift  the  wheat  trom  the  chaff,  and  to 
separate  the  gold  from  the  dross. 

But  I  must  here  observe,  that  if,  through  the 
delusions  of  the  imagination,  we  converted  the 
inhabitant  of  the  chamber  into  a  Henry  Kirke 
White,  we  might  be  equally  under  a  delusion 
when  we  pronounced  him  to  be  an  earthly-minded 
sensualist  because  we  saw  his  hand  employed  in 
lighting  a  segar — it  does  not  follow  that  a  man 
cannot  be  intellectual  or  spiritual-minded  be- 
cause he  smokes  segars.  His  health  might  re- 
quire him  to  smoke  ;  and  though  my  first  im- 
pressions were  against  the  fancied  student  when 
you  discovered  his  employment,  a  little  reflection 
convinced  me  that  we  might  only  be  exchanging 
one  fallacy  for  another,  and  that  we  might  still  be 
as  far  removed  from  the  truth  as  before. 

Then,  let  me  again  presume  to  assure  you,  my 
beloved  companions,  and  from  my  own  painful 
experience,  that  you  cannot  be  too  much  on  your 
guard  against  hasty  judgments  of  persons  and 
things  ;  believe  me,  that  a  lively  imagination  is 
the  greatest  of  all  enemies  to  that  true,  sober,  just 
view  of  this  world,  its  pleasures,  its  pains,  its 
temptations,  and  its  dangers,  which  constitutes 
our  safety  as  we  go  &Jong  the  path  of  life.  But 
if  our  imagination  will  put  in  its  claim  to  be 
10 


110       A  WALK  IS   SHE   TEMPLE  GARDENS. 

occasionally  indulged  as  well  as  our  other  facul- 
ties, let  its  powers  be  exercised  where  even  its 
loftiest  nights  can  be  productive  only  of  benefit 
and  enjoyment,  namely,  on  the  glories  of  the  un- 
seen world,  and  on  the  greatness  of  Him,  who  is 
the  light  thereof, 

The  brightest  dreams  of  fancy  must  fall  far 
short  of  the  reality  of  Him,  and  of  His  kingdom  ; 
for  it  is  written,  that  "  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear 
heard,  neither  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man 
the  things  which  God  hath  prepared  for  them 
that  love  him."  Those  glorious  sources  of  ad- 
miration and  interest  can  never,  like  our  earthly 
idols,  change  and  fade  to  our  view,  calling  forth 
in  us  feelings  of  aversion,  contempt  and  disgust, 
instead  of  love,  confidence  and  respect ;  but 
while  we  contemplate  them,  we  shall  feel  our 
hearts  animated  to  desire,  and  encouraged  to 
hope  that,  through  faith  in  the  Redeemer,  we 
may  at  last  be  permitted  to  enter  into  those 
realms  of  glory  where  no  change  comes,  where 
"  faith  is  lost  in  sight,"  and  where  we  shall  be- 
hold the  face  of  Him  "  who  is  the  same  yester- 
day, to-day,  and  for  ever  " 


THE  ROSE  OF  CASTLE  HOWARD 


BY  THE  REV.  GEORGE  CROLY. 


"Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 


Babe  !   thou  wert  born  in  noble  halls, 
The  crown  and  shield  were  on  thy  walls, 
And  shapes  of  state  and  chivalry 
Dawned  richly  on  thy  infant  eye. 
x\nd  on  thy  infant  lips  were  names 
That  light  the  heart  like  beacon  flames. 


c* 


Along  thy  castled  galleries 

Rose  emblems  of  the  brave  and  wise, 

The  bold  Crusader  in  his  mail, 

With  many  an  eastern  vigil  pale 

The  last  survivor  of  the  band 

He  led  from  England's  joyous  strand: 

He  led  from  pleasant  hall  and  bower 

To  face  the  Arab's  arrowy  shower ; 


112  THE    ROSE    OF    CASTLE    HOWARD. 

He  led  from  love  and  beauty's  shrine 

To  bleed  in  fatal  Palestine. 

And  there  the  Sage's  lofty  brow, 

Like  the  proud  mountain's  crown  of  snow, 

Calm,  pure,  above  earth's  troubled  scene, 

Gazing  on  neaven,  no  cloud  between. 

And  there  the  Statesman's  vivid  eye, 

The  lip  where  sleeping  thunders  lie, 

Awaiting  but  the  solemn  hour 

That  summons  virtue  in  her  power, 

When  tyrants  stretch  the  iron  hand, 

When  faction  saps  and  sinks  the  land  ; 

He  cares  not  whence  the  blow  is  given, 

There  stands  the  Champion  called  of  Heaven 

Yet,  Infant  of  a  lordly  line, 
A  loftier  fate  may  yet  be  thine, 
A  richer  wreath  than  ever  round 
The  brow  of  chief  or  sage  was  bound  : 
A  coronal  in  which  the  gems 
Are  lit  with  glory's  deathless  beams  ; 
Crown  of  the  holy  and  the  just, 
When  soars  the  spirit  from  the  dust, 
When  to  the  angel's  native  home 
The  father  bids  his  children  come, 
Bids  tears  be  dried,  and  sins  forgiven, 
Infant !  of  such  as  thou,  is  Heaven ! 


FILIAL  PIETY. 


BY  RICHARD  HOWITT. 

*  Thy  wish,  thy  words,  dear  youth,  have  power, 
But  love  hath  holier  power  in  me — " 

Moved  by  his  plea,  the  maid  began 
"  If  I  should  leave  my  aged  Sire, 
Who  then  would  bless  his  cottage  fire  1 

A  poor  and  friendless  man  ! 

"  My  mother  in  the  church-yard  lies, 
The  pride,  the  treasure  of  his  prime  ; 

Nor  am  I  valued  less  : 
In  me  he  finds  the  lost  restored, 
To  cheer  his  hearth,  to  bless  his  board — 

I  am  his  happiness  ! 

"  An  aged  tree  upon  the  waste — 
His  pleasant  summer  shade  is  gone 

All  save  one  solitary  bough  ; 
Oh,  many  happy  souls  were  his  ; 
And  he  was  blessed  in  their  bliss — 

To  feel  more  lonely  now. 
10* 


114 


FILIAL   PIETY. 


"  Then  woo,  dear  youth,  some  happier  maid  ; 
One  more  devote  to  follow  thee 

O'er  mountain  and  o'er  wild  ; 
I  may  not  wander  forth  from  him  ; 
His  locks  are  grey,  his  eyes  are  dim — 

I  am  his  only  child." 

"  I  love  thee  more,"  the  youth  exclaimed 
"  I  love  thee  more  and  more 

For  clinging  thus  to  age  ; 
Heaven  grant  thee,  in  thy  far  decline, 
'Midst  hearts  as  fondly  true  as  thine, 

To  close  thy  pilgrimage." 

The  youth  is  gone  unto  the  wars  ; 
The  maid  is  by  her  father's  fire, 

And  now  her  tears  more  freely  flow  5 
The  old  man  cannot  see  her  tears, 
But  then  the  maiden's  sighs  he  hears, 

And  marvels  why  'tis  so. 

For,  from  her  very  childhood  up 
Her  step  was  light,  ner  heart  was  gay 

And  ever  iovous  son^s  she  sung  : 
For  ever  with  her  gladsome  voice, 
That  made  his  lonely  heart  rejoice. 

Their  lowly  dwelling  rung. 


FILIAL    PIETY.  115 

There  is  a  change,  he  feels  a  change, 
And  yet  he  knows  not  why  ; 

And  Ellen  now  perceives  his  fears ; 
And  she,  to  stay  the  old  man's  tongue, 
Doth  sing — a  melancholy  song 

That  endeth  in  her  tears. 


"  What  ails  thee,  child  1  why  dost  thou  grieve  1 
I  know  that  thou  dost  strive  and  toil, 

But  then  my  days  can  be  but  few : 
And  He  who  looketh  from  above 
Will  bless  thy  patience  and  thy  love, 

With  love  as  strong  and  true." 

"  You  wrong  me,  father,"  Ellen  cried  ; 
"  You  are  my  only  solace  now  ; 

Your  death  were  woe  to  me  ; 
For  he  whom  I  so  fondly  loved, 
Whose  truth  in  poverty  was  proved, 

Has  gone  beyond  the  sea." 

They  pause,  and  then  they  weep  together— 
And  tears  have  power  to  soothe  and  bless  ; 

And  Ellen's  heart  is  lighter  grown  : 
The  old  man's  soul  is  in  his  youth. 
And  he  has  told  of  love  and  truth, 

In  grievous  trials  known 


116  THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE, 

Tears  pass — and  she  has  closed  his  eves ; 
And  she  has  wept  upon  the  sward 

That  wraps  his  lifeless  clay  ; 
And  from  the  wars  the  youth  is  come 
To  find  her  in  her  mournful  home, 

And  turn  its  night  to  day  ! 


>©io< 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

A  Sketch. 
BY  S.   C.  HALL. 

It  is  now  many  years  since  the  first  battalion 
of  the  17th  Regiment  of  Foot,  under  orders  to 
embark  for  India, — that  far  distant  land,  where 
so  many  of  our  brave  countrymen  have  fallen 
victims  to  the  climate,  and  where  so  f^ew  have 
slept  in  what  soldiers  call  "  the  bed  of  glory," — 
were  assembled  in  the  barrack  yard  of  Chatham, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE.  117 

to  be  inspected  previously  to  their  passing  on 
board  the  transports,  which  lay  moored  in  the 
Downs. 

It  was  scarcely  day-break,  when  the  merry 
drum  and  fife  were  heard  over  all  parts  of  the 
town,  and  the  soldiers  were  seen  sallying  forth 
from  their  quarters,  to  join  the  ranks  ;  with  their 
bright  firelocks  on  their  shoulders,  and  the  knap- 
sacks and  canteens  fastened  to  their  backs  by 
belts  as  white  as  snow.— Each  soldier  was  ac- 
companied by  some  friend  or  acquaintance, — or 
by  some  individual  with  a  dearer  title  to  his  re- 
gard than  either ;  and  there  was  a  strange  and 
sometimes  a  whimsical  mingling  of  weeping  and 
laughter  among  the  assembled  groups. 

The  second  battalion  was  to  remain  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  greater  portion  of  the  division  were 
present  to  bid  farewell  to  their  old  companions  in 
arms.  But  among  the  husbands  and  wives,  un- 
certainty as  to  their  destiny  prevailed — for  the 
lots  were  yet  to  be  drawn — the  lots  that  were  to 
decide  which  of  the  women  should  accompany 
the  regiment,  and  which  should  remain  behind. 
Ten  of  each  company  were  to  be  taken,  and 
chance  was  to  be  the  only  arbiter. — Without  no- 
ticing what  passed  elsewhere,  I 'confined  my  at- 
tention to  that  company  which  was  commanded 
by  my  riend  Captain  Loden,  a  brave  and  excel- 


118  THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

lent  officer,  who,  I  am  sure,  has  no  more  than 
myself  forgotten  the  scene  to  which  I  refer. 

The  women  had  gathered  round  the  flag-ser- 
jeant,  who  held  the  lots  in  his  cap — ten  of  them 
marked  "  to  go" — and  all  the  others  containing 
the  fatal  words  "  to  remain."  It  was  a  moment 
of  dreadful  suspense,  and  never  have  I  seen  the 
extreme  of  anxiety  so  powerfully  depicted  in  the 
countenances  of  human  beings  as  in  the  features 
of  each  of  the  soldiers'  wives  who  composed  that 
group. — One  advanced  and  drew  her  ticket ;  it 
was  against  her,  and  she  retreated  sobbing. 
Another,  she  succeeded  ;  and,  giving  a  loud  huz- 
za, ran  off  to  the  distant  ranks  to  embrace  her 
husband.  A  third  came  forward  with  hesitating 
step ;  tears  were  already  chasing  each  other 
down  her  cheeks,  and  there  was  an  unnatural 
paleness  on  her  interesting  and  youthful  counte- 
nance. She  put  her  small  hand  into  the  Ser- 
jeant's cap,  and  I  saw  by  the  rise  and  fall  of  her 
bosom,  even  more  than  her  looks  revealed. — She 
unrolled  the  paper,  looked  upon  it,  and  with  a 
deep  groan,  fell  back  and  fainted. — So  intense 
was  the  anxiety  of  every  person  present,  that  she 
remained  unnoticed,  until  all  the  tickets  had  been 
drawn,  and  the  greater  number  of  the  women  had 
left  the  spot.  I  then  looked  round,  and  beheld 
her  supported  by  her  husband,  who  was  kneeling 


THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE.  119 

upon  the  ground,  gazing  upon  her  face,  and  dry- 
ing her  fast  falling  tears  with  his  coarse  handker- 
chief, and  now  and  then  pressing  it  to  his  own 
manly  cheek. 

Captain  Loden  advanced  towards  them. — "  I 
am  sorry,  Henry  Jenkins,"  said  he,  "  that  fate 
has  been  against  you  ;  but  bear  up,  and  be  stout- 
hearted." 

"  I  am  so,  Captain !"  said  the  soldier,  as  he 
looked  up  and  passed  his  rough  hand  across  his 
face  ;  "  but  'tis  a  hard  thing  to  part  from  a  wife, 
and  she  so  soon  to  be  a  mother." 

"  Oh  Captain  !"  sobbed  the  young  woman, 
"  as  you  are  both  a  husband  and  a  father,  do  not 
take  him  from  me  !  I  have  no  friend  in  the  wide 
world  but  one,  and  you  will  let  him  bide  with  me  ! 
Oh  take  me  with  him  ! — take  me  with  him — for 
the  love  of  God  take  me  with  him,  Captain !" 
She  fell  on  her  knees,  laid  hold  of  the  officer's 
sash,  clasped  it  firmly  between  her  hands,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face,  exclaiming,  "  Oh  !  leave 
me  my  only  hope,  at  least  till  God  gives  me  ano- 
ther :"  and  repeated,  in  heart-rending  accents, 
"  Oh,  take  me  with  him  !  take  me  with  him  !" 

The  gallant  officer  was  himself  in  tears — he 
knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  grant  the  poor 
wife's  petition,  without  creating  much  discontent 
in  his  conmany,  and  he  gazed  upon  them  with 


120  THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE 

that  feeling  with  which  a  good  man  always  re- 
gards the  sufferings  he  cannot  alleviate.  At  thi3 
moment  a  smart  young  soldier  stepped  forward, 
and  stood  before  the  Captain  with  his  hand  to  his 
cap. 

"  And  what  do  you  want,  my  good  fellow  \n 
said  the  officer. 

"  My  name's  John  Carty,  plase  yer  honor,  and 
I  belong  to  the  second  battalion." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  here  V9 

"  Only,  yer  honor,"  said  Carty,  scratching  his 
head,  "  that  poor  man  and  his  wife  there  are  sor- 
row-hearted at  parting,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?" 

"  Why,  yer  honor,  they  say  I'm  a  likely  lad, 
and  I  know  I'm  fit  for  sarvice, — and  if  yer  honor 
would  only  let  that  poor  fellow  take  my  place  in 
Captain  Bond's  Company,  and  let  me  take  his 
place  in  yours, — why  yer  honor  would  make  two 
poor  things  happy,  and  save  the  life  of  one  of 
'em,  I'm  thinking." 

Captain  Loden  considered  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  directing  the  young  Irishman  to  remain  where 
he  was,  proceeded  to  his  brother  officers'  quar- 
ters. He  soon  made  arrangements  for  the  ex- 
change of  the  soldiers,  and  returned  to  the  place 
where  he  had  left  them. 

"  Well,  John  Cartv,"  said  he,  "  you  go  to  Ben- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE.  121 

gal  with  me,  and  yt>u,  Henry  Jenkins,  remain  at 
home  with  your  wife." 

"  Thank  yer  honor,"  said  John  Carty,  again 
touching  his  cap  as  he  walked  off. 

Henry  Jenkins  and  his  wife  both  rose  frcm 
the  ground  and  rushed  into  each  other's  arms. 
"  God  bless  you,  Captain  !'*  said  the  soldier,  as 
he  pressed  his  wife  closer  to  his  bosom.  "  Oh, 
bless  him  for  ever  !"  said  the  wife  :  "  bless  him 
with  prosperity  and  a  happy  heart ! — bless  his 
wife,  and  bless  his  children;"  and  she  again 
fainted. 

The  officer,  wiping  a  tear  from  his  eye,  and 
exclaiming,  "  May  you  never  want  a  friend  when 
I  am  far  from  you, — you,  my  good  lad,  and  your 
amiable  and  loving  wife  !"  passed  on  to  his  com- 
pany, while  the  happy  couple  went  in  search  of 
John  Carty. 

******* 

About  twelve  months  since,  as  two  boys  were 
watching  the  sheep  confided  to  their  charge,  up- 
on a  wide  heath  in  the  county  of  Somerset,  their 
attention  was  attracted  by  a  soldier,  who  walked 
along  apparently  with  much  fatigue,  £.nd  at  length 
stopped  to  rest  his  weary  limbs  beside  the  old 
finger-post,  which  at  one  time  pointed  out  the 
way  to  the  neighboring  villages  ;  but  which  now 
11 


122  the  soldier's  wife. 

afforded  no  information  to  the  traveller ;  for  age 
had  rendered  it  useless. 

The  boys  were  gazing  upon  him  with  much 
curiosity,  when  he  beckoned  them  towards  him, 
and  inquired  the  way  to  the  village  of  Eldenby. 

The  eldest,  a  fine  intelligent  lad  of  about 
twelve  years  of  age,  pointed  to  the  path,  and  ask- 
ed if  he  were  going  to  any  particular  place  in  the 
village. 

"  No,  my  little  lad,"  said  the  soldier  ;  "  but  it 
is  on  the  high-road  to  Frome,  and  I  have  friends 
there  ;  but,  in  truth,  T  am  very  wearied,  and  per- 
haps may  find  in  yon  village  some  person  who 
•will  befriend  a  poor  fellow,  and  look  to  God  for 
a  reward." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  boy,  "  My  father  was  a  soldier 
many  years  ago,  and  he  dearly  loves  to  look  upon 
a  red  coat — if  you  come  with  me,  you  may  be 
sure  of  a  welcome." 

"  And  you  can  tell  us  stories  about  foreign 
parts,"  said  the  younger  lad,  a  fine  chubby- 
cheeked  fellow,  who,  with  his  watch-coat  thrown 
carelessly  over  his  shoulder,  and  his  crook  in  his 
right  hand,  had  been  minutely  examining  every 
portion  of  the  soldier's  dress. 

The  boys  gave  instructions  to  their  intelligent 
dog,  who,  they  said,  would  take  good  care  of  the 
sheep  during  their  absence ;  and  in  a  few  minutes 


THE    SOLDIER'S    WIFE.  123 

the  soldier  and  his  young  companions  reached 
the  gate  of  a  nourishing  farm-house,  which  had 
all  the  external  tokens  of  prosperity  and  happi- 
ness. The  younger  boy  trotted  on  a  few  paces 
before,  to  give  his  parents  notice  that  they  bad 
invited  a  stranger  to  rest  beneath  their  hospitable 
roof ;  and  the  soldier  had  just  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  door  when  he  was  received  by 
a  joyful  cry  of  recognition  from  his  old  friends, 
Henry  Jenkins  and  his  wife  ;  and  he  was  wel- 
comed as  a  brother  to  the  dwelling  of  those,  who, 
in  all  human  probability,  were  indebted  to  him 
for  their  present  enviable  station. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  this  story  further 
than  to  add,  that  John  Carty  spent  his  furlough 
at  Eldenby  farm  ;  and  that  at  the  expiration  of  it, 
his  discharge  was  purchased  by  his  grateful 
friends.  He  is  now  living  in  their  happy  dwell- 
ing ;  and  his  care  and  exertions  have  contributed 
greatly  to  increase  their  prosperity.  Nothing  has 
been  wrong  with  them  since  John  Carty  was 
their  steward. 

"  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters,"  said  the 
wise  man,  "  and  it  shall  be  returned  to  thee  after 
many  days." 


INNOCENCE. 


BY    AGNES    STRICKLAND. 
Autioress  of  the  "  Seven  Ages  of  Women,    $e. 

The  radiant  glances  of  thy  heavenward  eye 
Are  raised  above  the  clouds  of  mortal  care  ; 
Oh,  holy  and  divinest  Purity, 
To  thee,  all  things  are  lovely,  all  are  fair. 
The  Proteus  shapes  of  Sin  still  pass  thee  by, 
And  leave  on  thee  no  shadow  ;  and  the  snare 
Of  strong  Temptation,  though  it  oft  assail 
Thy  stedfast  spirit,  can  in  nought  prevail. 

Thou  hast  in  festal  halls  and  lordly  towers 
Preserved  thy  charms  amidst  the  flattering  train, 
Who  scattered  in  thy  path  enchanted  flowers 
And  wooed  thee  with  a  thousand  spells  in  vain. 
Thou,  with  firm  step  through  Pleasure's  syren 

bowers, 
Like  angel  guest  whom  earth  could  ne'er  enchain, 
Hast  still  serenely  thy  bright  course  maintained, 
And  onward  passed  unfettered  and  unstained 


INNOCENCE.  125 

On  thee,  in  deepest  solitudes,  has  smiled 
That  perfect  peace  the  world  could  ne'er  bestow; 
Oh!  holy,  beautiful,  and  undefiled 
Relic  of  heaven  still  lingering  hert  below, 
The  lily  blooms  beside  thee  in  the  wild, 
Yet  cannot  match  her  coronal  of  snow 
With  thy  unsullied  vesture's  spotless  white, 
Washed  in  the  dews  that  usher  in  the  light. 


From  the  vain  throng  retired,  thou  sitt'st  alone, 
Listening  the  wood-dove's  note,  or  murmur  sweet 
Of  waving  leaves  by  mountain  breezes  blown, 
Where  Jessamines  canopy  thy  calm  retreat, 
And  thy  my  hillock  forms  thy  sylvan  throne, 
And  the  lamb  finds  a  refuge  at  thy  feet ; 
And  crystal  fountain,  sparkling  in  thy  sight, 
Reflects  thy  image,  and  becomes  more  bright. 


What  though  the  tender  paleness  of  thy  face 
Doth  wear  at  times  the  pensive  shade  of  sadness  ? 
'Tis  only  when  thou  dost  around  thee  trace 
The  evil  traits  of  folly,  guilt,  and  madness, 
Whose  canker  spots  have  marr'd  the  human  race ; 
For  thou  art  in  thyself  celestial  gladness, 
And  still  art  found  'midst  all  the  storms  of  earth, 
Bright  as  when  Eden's  bowers  beheld  thy  birth. 
11* 


126  ORIGIN    OP    DARBY    AND    JOAN. 

Affliction,  with  her  sternly  chastening  rod, 
Indeed  hath  tried  thee,  but  could  ne'er  destroy 
That  glorious  emanation  from  thy  God, 
The  deep  serenity  of  holy  joy  ; 
And  though  thy  pilgrim  feet  full  oft  have  trod 
A  rugged  way,  yet  bliss  without  alloy 
Is  to  thy  raptured  glance  divinely  given, 
Which  sees  through  thorny  paths  the  road  to 
heaven. 


— oojoe— 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  "DARBY  AND  JOAN.' 


AUTHOR  OF  "  DAME  REBECCA  BERRY  " 

Within  three  miles  of  Tadcaster,  in  the  West 
Riding  of  Yorkshire,  there  is  a  beautiful  village 
called  Healaugh,  remotely  situated,  but  celebra- 
ted from  being  the  place  where  lived,  more  than 
a  century  ago,  a  couple  called  "  Darby  and 
Joan,"  and  whose  humble  dwelling  is  still  .0  be 
seen  there. 


ORIGIN    OF    DARBY    AND    JOAH.  127 

The  way  leading  to  this  rural  spot  had,  as  I 
drove  thither,  all  the  charm  of  soft  pastoral  scene- 
ry :  rich  meadows,  filled  with  sheep  and  cattle  ; 
green  hedgerows,  intermingled  with  a  profusion 
of  roses  and  woodbine,  and  every  bank  enamelled 
with  fragrant  flowers.  It  was  the  month  of  June, 
when  all  the  redolence  of  summer  regales  the 
senses,  and  invigorates  the  spirits,  in  beholding 
the  gaiety  of  nature,  and  every  animated  object 
happy,  amidst  the  song  of  birds,  and  the  joyous 
aspect  of  summer. 

Healaugh  consists  of  one  long  street,  with  low 
thatched  cottages,  and  formerly  had  rows  of  tall 
trees  before  every  door,  with  a  bench  beneath. 
The  Church  stands  at  one  end,  partially  covered 
with  ivy,  and,  from  resting  on  a  green  bank,  em- 
bowered in  lime-trees,  is  a  pleasing  object  on 
entering  the  village. 

Even  now  this  sequestered  little  spot  looks  the 
paradise  of  humble  life  ;  for,  in  Yorkshire,  the 
eye  is  not  pained  in  beholding  that  squalid  pov- 
erty too  often  seen  in  remote  parts  of  England. 

The  rustic  bench  still  remains  on  which  the 
faithful  Darby  and  Joan  were  used  to  sit :  he 
smoking  his  pipe  and  quaffing  his  ale  ;  she,  in  all 
the  garrulity  of  age,  relating  tales  of  days  long 
passed  away  with  recollected  enjoyment,  sur- 
rounded by  their  children's  children,  (at  this  time 


128  ORIGIN    OF    DARBY    AND    JOAN. 

the  cottage  is  inhabited  by  one  of  their  descend- 
ants,) or  listening  to  their  hopes  and  fears  re- 
specting their  future  prospects  in  life,  until  they 
almost  forgot  they  were  quietly  passing  into  that 
state  where  hope  and  fear  have  no  longer  exist- 
ence. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  old  couple  were  con- 
stantly seen  tottering  together  to  church,  sup- 
ported by  some  of  their  children  or  grandchil- 
dren ;  thus  proving  themselves  still  linked  to- 
gether in  their  duties  to  their  Maker,  as  well  as 
in  their  worldly  enjoyments.  Happy,  enviable 
state  !  where  sympathy  doubles  every  joy,  and 
lessens  every  grief;  where  kindred  spirits  min- 
gle together,  be  it  either  in  the  highest  walk  of 
life,  or  the  humblest  of  its  paths.  Happiness 
beamed  with  perpetual  sunshine  on  the  cottage 
of  Parby  and  Joan,  which  is  justly  illustrated  in 
Lord  Wharton's  ballad  called 


THE  HAPPY  OLD  COUPLE.* 


Old  Darby,  with  Joan  by  his  side, 
I've  often  regarded  with  wonder 

He  is  dropsical,  she  is  sore  eyed, 
And  yet  they  are  never  asunder. 


*  Lord  Wharton  inhabited  a  handsome,  old-fashioned  man 
sion  at  the  extremity  of  the  village  of  Healaugh. 


ORIGIN    OF    DARBY    AND    JOAN.  129 

Together  they  totter  about, 

Or  sit  in  the  sun  at  the  door ; 
And,  at  night,  when  old  Darby's  pipe's  out, 

His  Joan  Avill  not  smoke  one  whiff  more. 

No  beauty  or  wit  they  possess, 

Their  several  failings  to  cover ; 
Then,  what  are  the  charms,  can  you  guess, 

That  make  them  so  fond  of  each  other? 

rTis  the  pleasing  remembrance  of  vouth — 
The  endearments  which  youth  did  bestow ; 

The  thoughts  of  past  pleasure  and  truth, 
The  best  of  all  blessings  below. 

Those  traces  for  ever  will  last, 

Nor  sickness  nor  age  can  remove ; 
For  when  youth  and  beauty  are  past, 

And  age  brings  the  winter  of  love, 

A  friendship  insensibly  grows, 

By  reviews  of  such  raptures  as  these, 

The  current  of  fondness  still  flows, 
Which  deepest  old  age  cannot  freeze. 

The  happy  old  pair  are  buried  in  Healaugh 
churchyard.  Thither  T  bent  my  steps  to  look  at 
their  grave.  I  found  the  sexton  busily  employed 
preparing  the  place  appointed  for  all  men  ;  and, 
as  the  person  who  generally  has  all  the  village 
annals  by  heart,  to  him  I  went  for  the  history  of 
the  singular  personages  in  question. 

The  sexton  appeared  to  have  numbered  more 
than  three  score  years  and  ten.     He  was  a  re- 


130  ORIGIN    OF    DARBY    AND    JOAN. 

markablyhale  and  good-looking  old  man;  though 
his  face  was  deeply  scarred  with  small-pox,  and 
he  had  only  one  eye,  I  scarcely  ever  saw  so 
shrewd  a  countenance.  There  was  in  this  soli- 
tary eye  an  expression  of  facetious  humor,  and 
at  the  same  time  low  cunning,  which  amused  me 
extremely.  He  actually  personified  the  grave- 
digger  in  Hamlet ;  for  not  only  with  the  most 
careless  indifference  did  he  perform  his  part  in  this 
scene  of  mortality,  but  he  was  also  a  humorist, 
and  jested,  as  with  a  significant  look  he  related 
the  history  of  "  Darby  and  Joan,"  and  pointed 
out  the  spot  where  a  stone  marked  their  grave  to 
every  passer  by. 

To  time  immemorial  will  this  faithful  old  cou- 
ple be  remembered,  and  quoted  as  an  example  of 
conjugal  felicity,  by  the  designation  of  "  a  per- 
fect Darby  and  Joan," — in  those  instances,  alas ! 
too  rare,  where  man  and  wife  pass  not  only  the 
spring-time  of  life,  but  old  age,  never  asunder, 
having  made  a  contract  with  each  other  in  youth, 
to  bear  with  the  infirmities  of  old  age  together. 


LITTLE  MOSES. 

A  Village  Story. 

BY    MISS    MITFORD. 

One  of  the  prettiest  rustic  dwellings  in  our 
pretty  neighbourhood,  is  the  picturesque  farm- 
house which  stands  on  the  edge  of  Wokefield 
Common,  so  completely  in  a  bottom,  that  the  pas- 
sengers who  traverse  the  high  road  see  indeed  the 
smoke  from  the  chimneys  floating  like  a  vapour 
over  a  woody  hill  which  forms  the  back-ground, 
but  cannot  even  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  roof,  so 
high  does  the  turfy  Common  rise  above  it ; 
whilst  so  steeply  does  the  ground  decline  to  the 
door,  that  it  seems  as  if  no  animal  less  accus- 
tomed to  tread  the  hill  side  than  a  goat  or  a 
chamois  could  venture  to  descend  the  narrow 
footpath  which  winds  round  the  declivity,  and 
forms  the  nearest  way  to  the  village.  The  cart- 
tract,  thridding  the  mazes  of  the  hills,  leads  to 
the  house  by  a  far  longer  but  very  beautiful  road ; 
the  smooth  fine  turf  of  the  Common  varied  by 


132  LITTLE    MOSES. 

large  tufts  of  furze  and  broom  rising  in  an  ab- 
rupt bank  on  one  side,  on  the  other  a  narrow  well 
timbered  valley,  bordered  by  hanging  woods,  and 
terminated  by  a  large  sheet  of  water,  close  be- 
side which  stands  the  farm,  a  low  irregular  cot- 
tage snugly  thatched,  and  its  different  out-build- 
ings, all  on  the  smallest  scale,  but  giving  the  air 
of  comfort  and  habitation  to  the  spot  that  nothing 
can  so  thoroughly  convey  as  an  English  barn 
yard  with  its  complement  of  cows,  pigs,  horses, 
chickens,  and  children. 

One  part  of  the  way  thither  is  singularly  beau- 
tiful. It  is  where  a  bright  and  sparkling  spring 
has  formed  itself  into  a  clear  pond  in  a  deep 
broken  hollow  by  the  road  side  :  the  bank  all 
around  covered  with  rich  grass,  and  descending 
in  unequal  terraces  to  the  pool  :  whilst  on  every 
side  around  it,  and  at  different  heights,  stand  ten 
or  twelve  noble  elms,  casting  their  green  sha- 
dows mixed  with  the  light  clouds  and  the  blue 
summer  sky  on  the  calm  and  glassy  water,  and 
giving,  (especially  when  the  evening  sun  lighted 
up  the  little  grove,  causing  the  rugged  trunks  to 
shine  like  gold,  and  the  pendent  leaves  to  glitter 
like  the  burnished  wings  of  the  rose  beetle,)  a 
sort  of  pillared  and  columnar  dignity  to  the  scene. 

Seldom  too  would  that  fountain,  famous  for 
the  purity  and  sweetness  of  its  waters,  be  without 


LITTLE    MOSES.  133 

some  figure  suited  to  the  landscape  ;  child,  wo- 
man, or  country  girl,  leaning  from  the  plank,  ex- 
tended over  the  spring,  to  fill  her  pitcher,  or  re- 
turning with  it,  supported  by  one  arm  on  her 
head,  recalling  all  classical  and  pastoral  images, 
the  beautiful  sculptures  of  Greece,  the  poetrv  of 
Homer  and  of  Sophocles,  and  even  more  man 
these,  the  habits  of  oriental  life,  and  the  Rachels 
and  Rebeccas  of  Scripture. 

Seldom  would  that  spring  be  without  some 
such  figure  ascending  the  turfy  steps  into  the 
lane,  of  whom  one  might  inquire  respecting  the 
sequestered  farm  house,  whose  rose-covered 
porch  was  seen  so  prettily  from  a  turn  in  the 
road  ;  and  often  it  would  be  one  of  the  farmer's 
children  who  would  answer  you  ;  for  in  spite  of 
the  vicinity  of  the  great  pond,  all  the  water  for 
domestic  use  was  regularly  brought  from  the 
Elmin  Spring. 

Wokefield-Pond-Farm  was  a  territory  of  some 
thirty  acres  ;  one  of  the  "  little  bargains,"  as 
they  are  called,  which  once  abounded,  but  are 
now  seldom  found,  in  Berkshire  ;  and  at  the  time 
to  which  our  story  refers,  that  is  to  say,  about 
twenty  years  ago,  its  inhabitants  were  amongst 
the  poorest  and  most  industrious  people  in  the 
country. 

George  Mearing  was  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
12 


134  LITTLE    MOSES. 

yeoman  in  the  parish,  who  held  this  "  little  bar- 
gain" in  addition  to  the  manor  farm.  George 
was  an  honest,  thoughtless,  kind-hearted,  good 
humoured  lad,  quite  unlike  his  father,  who, 
snrewd,  hard,  and  money-getting,  often  regretted 
his  son's  deficiency  in  the  qualities  by  which  he 
had  risen  in  the  world,  and  reserved  all  his  favor 
and  affection  for  one  who  possessed  them  in  full 
perfection, — his  only  daughter,  Martha.  Mar- 
tha was  a  dozen  years  older  than  her  brother, 
with  a  large  bony  figure,  a  visage  far  from  pre- 
possessing, a  harsh  voice,  and  a  constitutional 
scold,  which,  scrupulous  in  her  cleanliness,  and 
vigilant  in  her  economy,  was  in  full  activity  all 
day  long.  She  seemed  to  go  about  the  house 
for  no  other  purpose  than  that  of  finding  fault, 
maundering  now  at  one,  and  now  at  another, — 
her  brother,  the  carters,  the  odd  boy,  the  maid, — 
every  one,  in  short,  except  her  father,  who,  con- 
necting the  ideas  of  scolding  and  of  good  house- 
wifery, thought  that  he  gained,  or  at  least  saved 
money  by  the  constant  exercise  of  this  accom- 
plishment, and  listened  to  her  accordingly  with 
great  delight  and  admiration  :  "  Her  mother," 
thought  he  to  himself,  "  was  a  clever  managing 
woman,  and  sorry  enough  was  I  to  lose  her  ;  but 
gracious  me,  she  was  nothing  to  Martha  !  where 
she  spoke  one  word,  Martha  speaks  ten." 


LITTLE    MOSES.  135 

The  rest  of  the  family  heard  this  eternal  din 
with  far  less  complacency.  They  agreed,  in- 
deed, that  she  could  not  help  scolding,  that  it 
was  her  way,  and  that  they  were  all  fools  to  take 
notice  of  it ;  but  yet  they  would  flee,  one  and  all, 
before  the  outpouring  of  her  wrath,  like  birds  be- 
fore a  thunder  shower. 

The  person  on  whom  the  storm  fell  oftenest 
and  loudest  was  of  course  her  own  immediate 
subject,  the  maid  ;  and  of  the  many  damsels  who 
had  undergone  the  discipline  of  Martha's  tongue, 
none  was  ever  more  the  object  of  her  objurga- 
tion, or  deserved  it  less,  than  Dinah  Moore.  But 
Dinah  had  many  sins  in  her  stern  mistress's  eyes, 
which  would  hardly  have  been  accounted  such 
elsewhere.  In  the  first  place  she  was  young 
and  pretty,  and  to  youth  and  beauty  Martha  had 
strong  objections  ;  then  she  was  somewhat  ad- 
dicted to  rustic  finery,  especially  in  the  article 
of  pink  top-knots, — and  to  rosy  ribbons  Martha 
had  almost  as  great  an  aversion  as  to  rosy 
cheeks  ;  then  again  the  young  lass  had  a  spirit, 
and  when  unjustly  accused  would  vindicate  her- 
self with  more  wit  than  prudence,  and  better  tem- 
pered persons  than  Martha  cannot  abide  that 
qualification  ;  moreover  the  little  damsel  had  an 
irrepressible  lightness  of  heart  and  gaiety  of 
temper,  which  no  rebuke  could  tame,  no  severity 


136  LITTLE    MOSES. 

repress  ;  laughter  was  as  natural  to  her,  as  chid- 
ing to  her  mistress  ;  all  her  labours  went  merrily 
on  :  she  would  sing  over  the  mashing  tub,  and 
smile  through  the  washing  week,  out-singing 
Martha's  scolding,  and  out-smiling  Martha's 
frowns. 

This  in  itself  would  have  been  sufficient  cause 
of  offence  :  but  when  Martha  fancied,  and  fan- 
cied truly,  that  the  pink-top-knots,  the  smiles, 
and  the  songs  were  all  aimed  at  the  heart  of  her 
brother  George,  of  whom,  in  her  own  rough 
way,  she  was  both  fond  and  proud,  the  pretty 
songstress  became  insupportable :  and  when 
George,  in  despite  of  her  repeated  warnings,  did 
actually  one  fine  morning  espouse  Dinah  Moore, 
causing  her  in  her  agitation  to  let  fall  an  old- 
fashioned  china  wash-hand  basin,  the  gift  of  a 
long  deceased  godmother,  which,  with  the  jug 
belonging  to  it,  she  valued  more  than  any  other 
of  her  earthly  possessions  ;  no  wonder  that  she 
made  a  vow  never  to  speak  to  her  brother  whilst 
she  lived,  or  that  more  in  resentment  than  m 
covetousness  (for  Matha  Mearing  was  rather  a 
harsh  and  violent,  than  an  avaricious  woman) 
she  encouraged  her  father  in  his  angry  resolu- 
tion of  banishing  the  culprit  from  his  house,  and 
disinheriting  him  from  his  property. 

Old  Farmer  Mearing  was   not,  however,  a 


LITTLE    MOSES.  137 

wicked  man,  although,  in  many  respects,  a  hard 
one.  He  did  not  turn  his  son  out  to  starve  :  on 
the  contrary,  he  settled  him  in  the  Pond  Farm, 
with  a  decent  though  scanty  plenishing, — put 
twenty  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  told  him  that 
he  had  nothing  more  to  expect  from  him,  and 
that  he  must  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  as 
he  had  done  forty  years  before. 

George's  heart  would  have  sunk  under  this  de- 
nunciation, for  he  was  of  a  kind  but  weak  and 
indolent  nature,  and  wholly  accustomed  to  de- 
pend on  his  father,  obey  his  orders,  and  rely  on 
his  support ;  but  he  was  sustained  by  the  bolder 
and  firmer  spirit  of  his  wife,  who,  strong,  active, 
lively,  and  sanguine,  finding  herself  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  her  own  mistress,  in  possession 
of  a  comfortable  home,  and  married  to  the  man 
of  her  heart,  saw  nothing  but  sunshine  before 
them.  Dinah  had  risen  in  the  world,  and  George 
had  fallen  ;  and  this  circumstance,  in  addition  to 
an  original  difference  of  temperament,  may  suffi- 
ciently account  for  their  difference  of  feeling. 

During  the  first  year  or  two  Dinah's  prognos- 
tics seemed  likely  to  be  verified.  George 
ploughed  and  sowed  and  reaped,  and  she  made 
butter,  reared  poultry,  and  fatted  pigs  ;  and  their 
industry  prospered,  and  the  world  went  well  with 
the  young  couple.  But  a  bad  harvest,  the  death 
12* 


138  LITTLE    MOSES. 

of  their  best  cow,  the  lameness  of  their  most 
serviceable  horse,  and  more  than  all,  perhaps, 
the  birth  of  four  little  girls  in  four  successive 
years,  crippled  them  sadly,  and  brought  poverty 
and  the  fear  of  poverty  to  their  happy  fire-side. 

Still,  however,  Dinah's  spirit  continued  undi- 
minished. Her  children,  although  to  use  her 
own  phrase,  "  of  the  wrong  sort,"  grew  and 
flourished,  as  the  children  of  poor  people  do 
grow  and  flourish,  one  hardly  knows  how  ;  and 
by  the  time  that  the  long-wished-for  boy  made 
his  appearance  in  the  world,  the  elder  girls  had 
become  almost  as  useful  to  their  father  as  if  the}' 
had  been  "  the  right  sort"  themselves.  Never 
were  seen  such  hardy  and  handy  little  elves ! 
They  drove  the  plough,  tended  the  kine,  folded 
the  sheep,  fed  the  pigs,  worked  in  the  garden, 
made  the  hay,  hoed  the  turnips,  reaped  the  corn, 
hacked  the  beans,  and  drove  the  market  cart  to 

B on  occasion,  and  sold  the  butter,  eggs, 

and  poultry  as  well  as  their  mother  could  have 
done. 

Strong,  active,  and  serviceable  as  boys,  were 
the  little  lasses  ;  and  pretty  withal,  though  as 
brown  as  so  many  gipsies,  and  as  untrained  as 
wild  colts.  They  had  their  mother's  bright  and 
sparkling  countenance,  and  her  gay  and  sunny 
temper,  a  heritage  more  valuable  than  house  or 


LITTLE    MOSES.  139 

lai>J  — a  gift  more  precious  than  ever  was  be- 
stowed on  a  favoured  princess  by  beneficent  fairy. 
But  the  mother's  darling  was  one  who  bore 
no  resemblance  to  her  either  in  mind  or  person^ 
her  only  son  and  youngest  child  Moses,  so  call- 
ed after  his  grandfather,  in  a  lurking  hope,  which 
was  however  disappointed,  that  the  name  might 
propitiate  the  offended  and  wealthy  yeoman. 

Little  Moses  was  a  fair,  mild,  quiet  boy,  who 
seemed  at  first  sight  far  fitter  to  wear  petticoats 
than  any  one  of  his  madcap  sisters  ;  but  there 
was  an  occasional  expression  in  his  deep  grey 
eye  that  gave  token  of  sense  and  spirit,  and  an 
unfailing  steadiness  and  diligence  about  the 
child  that  promised  to  vindicate  his  mother's  par- 
tiality. She  was  determined  that  Moses  should 
be,  to  use  the  country  phrase,  "  a  good  scholar;" 
the  meaning  of  which  is,  by  the  way,  not  a  little 
dissimilar  from  that  which  the  same  words  bear 
at  Oxford  or  at  Cambridge.  Poor  Dinah  was  no 
"  scholar"  herself,  as  the  parish  register  can  tes- 
tify, where  her  mark  stands  below  George's  sig- 
nature in  the  record  of  her  marriage,  and  the  girls 
bade  fair  to  emulate  their  mother's  ignorance, 
Dinah  having  given  to  each  of  the  four  the  half 
of  a  year's  schooling,  upon  the  principle  of  ride 
ar.d  tie,  little  Lucy  going  one  day,  and  little  Pat- 
ty the  next,  and  so  on  with  the  succeeding  pair  ; 


140  LITTLE    MOSE8. 

in  this  way  adroitly  educating  two  children  for 
the  price  of  one,  their  mother  in  her  secret  soul 
holding  it  for  girls  a  waste  of  time.     But  when 
Moses  came  in  question  the   case  was   altered. 
He  was  destined  to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  an  entire 
education,  and  to  imbibe  unshared  all  the  learning 
that  the  parish  pedagogue  could  bestow.     An 
admission  to  the  Wokefield  free-school  ensured 
him  this   advantage,  together  with  the  right  of 
wearing  the  long  primitive  blue  cloth  coat  and 
leathern  girdle,  as  well  as  the  blue  cap  and  yel- 
low tassel  by  which  the  boys  were  distinguished  ; 
and  by  the  time  he  was  eight  years  old,  he  had 
made  such  progress  in  the  arts  of  writing  and 
cyphering,  that  he  was  pronounced  by  the  mas- 
ter to  be  the  most  promising  pupil  in  the  school. 
At  this  period,  misfortunes,  greater  than  they 
had  hitherto  known,  began  to  crowd  around  his 
family.      Old  Farmer  Mearing  died,  leaving  all 
his  property  to  Martha  ;  and   George,  a  broken 
hearted  toil-worn  man,  who  had  been  only  sup- 
ported in  his  vain  efforts  to  make  head  against  ill- 
fortune  by  the  hope  of  his  father  at  last  relent- 
ing, followed  him  to  the  grave  in  less  than  two 
months.     Debt  and  difficulty  beset  the  widow, 
and  even  her  health  and  spirits  began  to   fail. 
Her  only  resource  seemed  to  be  to  leave  her 
pleasant  home,  give  up  every  thing  to  the  ere- 


LITTLE    MOSES. 


141 


ditors,  get  her  girls  out  to  service,  and  try  to 
maintain  herself  and  Moses  by  washing  or  chair- 
ing, or  whatever  work  her  failing  strength  would 
allow  her  to  perform. 

Martha,  or  as  she  was  now  called,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tha, lived  on  in  lonely  and  apparently  comfortless 
affluence,  at  the  Manor  Farm.  She  had  taken 
no  notice  of  Dinah's  humble  supplications,  sent 
injudiciously  by  Patty,  a  girl  whose  dark  and 
sparkling  beauty  exactly  resembled  what  her  mo- 
ther had  been  before  her  unfortunate  marriage  ; 
but  on  Moses,  so  like  his  father,  she  had  been 
seen  to  gaze  wistfully  and  tenderly,  when  the 
little  procession  of  chanty  boys  passed  her  on 
their  way  to  church  :  though  on  finding  herself 
observed,  or  perhaps  in  detecting  herself  in  such 
an  indulgence,  the  softened  eye  was  immediate- 
ly withdrawn,  and  the  stern  spirit  seemed  to  ga- 
ther itself  into  a  resolution  only  the  stronger  for 
its  momentary  weakness. 

Mrs.  Martha,  now  long  past  the  middle  of 
life,  and  a  confirmed  old  maid,  had  imbibed  a 
few  of  the  habits  and  peculiarities  which  are  sup- 
posed, and  perhaps  justly,  to  characterise  that 
condition.  Amongst  other  things  she  had  a  par- 
ticular fancy  for  the  water  from  the  Elmin  spring, 
and  could  not  relish  her  temperate  supper  if 
cashed  down  by  any  other  beverage  ;  and  she 


142  LITTLE    MOSES. 

was  accustomed  to  fetch  it  herself  in  the  identi- 
cal china  jug,  the  present  of  her  grand  mother, 
the  basin  belonging  to  which  she  had  broken 
from  the  shock  she  underwent  when  hearing  of 
George's  wedding.  It  is  even  possible,  so  much 
are  we  the  creatures  of  association,  that  the  con- 
stant sight  of  this  favorite  piece  of  porcelain, 
which  was  really  of  very  curious  and  beautiful 
Nankin  china,  might,  by  perpetually  reminding 
her  of  her  loss,  and  the  occasion,  serve  to  con- 
firm her  inveterate  aversion  to  poor  George  and 
his  family. 

However  this  might  be,  it  chanced  that  one 
summer  evening  Mrs.  Martha  sallied  forth  to 
fetch  the  sparkling  draught  from  the  Elmin 
Spring.  She  filled  her  jug  as  usual,  but  much 
rain  had  fallen,  and  the  dame,  no  longer  so  active 
as  she  had  been,  slipped  when  about  to  re-ascend 
the  bank  with  her  burden,  and  found  herself  com- 
pelled either  to  throw  herself  forward  and  grasp 
the  trunk  of  the  nearest  tree,  to  the  imminent  pe- 
ril of  her  china  jug,  of  which  she  was  compelled 
to  let  go,  or  to  slide  back  to  the  already  tottering 
and  slippery  plank,  at  the  risk,  almost  the  cer- 
tainty, of  plunging  head  foremost  into  the  water. 
If  Mrs.  Martha  had  been  asked,  on  level  ground 
and  out  of  danger,  whether  she  preferred  to  be 
soused  in  her  own  person,  or  to  break  her  china 


LITTLE    MOSES.  143 

jug,  she  would,  most  undoubtedly,  theoretically 
have  chosen  the  ducking  ;  but  theory  and  prac- 
tice are  different  matters,  and  following  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  she  let  the  dear  mug 
go,  and  clung  to  the  tree. 

As  soon  as  she  was  perfectly  safe  she  began 
to  lament,  in  her  usual  vituperative  strain,  over 
her  irreparable  loss,  scolding  the  tottering  plank 
and  the  slippery  bank,  and  finally,  there  being  no 
one  else  to  bear  the  blame,  her  own  heedless 
haste,  which  had  cost  her  the  commodity  she 
valued  most  in  the  world.  Swinging  herself 
round,  however,  still  supported  by  the  tree,  she 
had  the  satisfaction  to  perceive  that  the  dear  jug 
was  not  yet  either  sunken  or  broken.  It  rested 
most  precariously  on  a  turf  of  bullrushes  towards 
the  centre  of  the  pool,  in  instant  danger  of  both 
these  calamities,  and,  indeed,  appeared  to  her  to 
be  visibly  sinking  under  its  own  weight.  What 
should  she  do  1  She  could  never  reach  it ;  and 
whilst  she  went  to  summon  assistance,  the  pre- 
cious porcelain  would  vanish.  What  could  she 
dot 

Just  as  she  was  asking  herself  this  question, 
she  had  the  satisfaction  to  hear  footsteps  in  the 
lane.  She  called  ;  and  a  small  voice  was  heard 
singing,  and  the  little  man  Moses,  with  his  satch- 
el at  his  back,  made  his  appearance,  returning 


144  LITTLE    MOSES. 

from  school.  He  had  not  heard  her,  and  she 
would  not  call  to  him — not  even  to  preserve  her 
china  treasure.  Moses,  however,  saw  the  dilem- 
ma, and  pausing  only  to  pull  :"T  his  coat,  plunged 
into  the  water,  to  rescue  the  sinking  cup. 

The  summer  had  been  wet,  and  the  pool  was 
unusually  high,  and  Mrs.  Martha  startled  to  per- 
ceive that  he  was  almost  immediately  beyond  his 
depth,  called  to  him  earnestly  and  vehemently  to 
return.  The  resolute  boy,  however,  accustom- 
ed from  infancy  to  dabble  like  the  young  water 
fowl  amidst  the  sedges  and  islets  of  the  great 
pond,  was  not  to  be  frightened  by  the  puny  wa- 
ters of  the  Elmin  Spring.  He  reached,  though 
at  some  peril,  the  turf  of  bullrushes — brought  the 
jug  triumphantly  to  land — washed  it — filled  it  at 
the  fountain-head,  and  finally  offered  it,  with  his 
own  sweet  and  gracious  smile,  to  Mrs.  Martha. 
And  she — oh  !  what  had  she  not  suffered  during 
the  last  kw  moments  whilst  the  poor  orphan — - 
her  brother  George's  only  boy,  was  risking  his 
life  to  preserve  for  her  a  paltry  bit  of  earthen- 
ware !  What  had  she  not  felt  during  those  few 
but  long  moments  !  Her  woman's  heart  melted 
within  her  ;  and  instead  of  seizing  the  precious 
porcelain,  she  caught  the  dripping  boy  in  her 
arms — half-smothered  him  with  tears  and  kisses, 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKEIt.  145 

and  vowed  that  her  home  should  be  his  home, 
and  her  fortune  his  fortune. 

And  she  kept  her  word, — she  provided  amply 
and  kindly  for  Dinah  and  her  daughters  ;  but 
Moses  is  her  heir,  and  he  lives  at  the  Manor 
Farm,  aud  is  married  to  the  prettiest  woman  in 
the  country  ;  and  Mrs.  Martha  has  betaken  her- 
self to  the  Pond-side,  with  a  temper  so  much 
ameliorated,  that  the  good  farmer  declares  the 
greatest  risk  his  children  run  is,  of  being  spoilt 
by  aunt  Martha  : — one  in  particular,  her  godson, 
who  has  inherited  the  name  and  the  favour  of  his 
father,  and  is  her  own  particular  little  Moses. 


,oJo< 


ISABEL,  THE  LACEMAKER 

BT    W.    H.    HARRISON,    ESQ. 

In  another  part  of  this  volume,  I  have  narra- 
ted a  circumstance  which  occurred  at  my  first 
school :  the  events  upon  which  the  following 
sketch  is  founded  took  place  during  my  continu- 
ance at  my  last ;  where  I  was  one  of  twelve  boys, 
from  fourteen  to  seventeen  years  old,  who  were 
committed  to  the  care  of  a  clergyman,  in  one  of 
the  most  delightful  situations  in  Hampshire. 
13 


146  ISABEL.    THE    LACEMAKER. 

He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  classics  and  ma- 
thematics, and  as  profoundly  ignorant  of  the 
world.  For  the  rest,  he  was  of  mild  temper,  and 
amiable  manners  ;  and,  although  somewhat  of  a 
disciplinarian  in  school  hours,  he  was  often  our 
companion,  and  occasionally  our  play-fellow,  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day. 

At  every  other  school  at  which  I  had  been 
placed  learning  was  a  labour  to  me,  and  it  was, 
consequently,  of  slow  and  irksome  acquirement ; 
but,  under  Mr.  Walton,  it  became  a  pleasure. 
Many  a  time,  during  the  summer  months,  would 
he  take  us  out  upon  a  lawn,  v/hich  fronted  the 
study  and  commanded  a  rich  and  varied  extent 
of  country,  and  there  hear  us  our  classical  les- 
sons under  the  shadow  of  a  magnificent  oak  ; 
and  so  much  was  the  scene  in  accordance  with 
the  subject  of  our  studies,  that  I  could  almost 
fancy  myself  in  the  midst  of  that  Arcadia  which 
the  bard  of  Mantua  so  sweetly  sung.  Well  I 
remember,  too,  after  we  had  construed  the  pre- 
scribed quantum  of  the  iEneid,  our  reverend 
preceptor  would  read  the  corresponding  portion 
in  Dryden's  translation,  which  was  an  old  folio 
edition,  and  exhibit  to  our  delighted  vision  pic- 
toral  illustrations  of  that  beautiful  fable.  Many 
years  have  passed  away  since  that  volume  was 
closed  upon  my  eyes  for  the  last  time  ;  but  I 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEi.xAKER  147 

stem  to  have,  it.  this  moment,  vividly  before 
them  the  print  of  the  wooden  horse,  with  the  ja- 
velin of  Laocoon  in  its  ribs  :  and  T  think  1  could 
accurately  trace,  upon  the  paper  before  me,  the 
circumvolutions  of  the  hideous  serpents  on  the 
limbs  of  the  devoted  priest  and  his  sons,  as  de- 
picted, faithfully  no  doubt,  in  the  engraving. 
Again,  the  representation  of  the  shipwreck  of 
iEneas,  with  all  its  horrible  minutse  of  detail — 
the  visible  winds  "  cracking  their  cheeks,"  and 
the  M  rari  nantes  in  gurgite  vasto" — appear  to 
my  mind's  eye  to  occupy  a  space  in  the  white 
curtains  of  the  bed,  beside  which  I  am,  at  this 
moment,  keeping  vigil  over  an  invalid,  and,  hap- 
pily, now  sleeping  friend.  I  recollect  that  we 
were  wont  to  consider  their  heathenish  deity- 
ships,  notwithstanding  their  high  attributes,  but 
very  so-so  sort  of  personages,  whom,  if  they  had 
had  the  benefit  of  living  under  an  English  con- 
stitution, nothing  but  their  immortality  would 
have  saved  from  the  gallows. 

In  the  intervals  between  the  hours  of  study, 
we  were  allowed  much  liberty,  and  were  wont  to 
explore  the  enchanting  country  around  us  in 
every  direction.  0  those  delightful  woods,  in 
which  we  have  gathered  nuts,  and  wild  flowers, 
and  strawberries  ;  and  the  spacious  park,  of 
which  the  noble  owner  permitted  us  the  range, 


14S  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER. 

where  we  were  accustomed  to  pick  up  chesnuts 
— the  "  caslanew  molles" — which  we  seemed  to 
relish  the  better,  because  Virgil  had  given  us  a 
classical  name  for  them  ! 

Those  were  indeed  happy  days,  and  I  thought 
them  such  at  the  time  ;  so  happy,  that  I  was  a 
rare  instance  of  a  youth  quitting  school,  in  dis- 
trust if  the  world,  on  which  I  was  about  to  enter, 
would  afford  me  an  equivalent  for  the  peaceful 
pleasures  that  I  was  called  upon  to  resign.    Ex- 
perience— long,   bitter,   and  sad    experience — 
confirmed  my  misgivings  ;  and  now,   "  post  tot 
naufragia,"    having  anchored  in  the  haven  of 
domestic  happiness,  I  often  look  upon  the  young 
and  bright,  and  innocent  countenances  which  are 
smiling  around  me,  and  sigh  to  think  that  they 
are  doomed  to  gather  of  the  same  tree,  and,  it 
may  be,  to  find  the  fruit  as  bitter  as  I  did.     0 
my  young  friends  !  who  are  enjoying  the  sanc- 
tuary of  a  paternal  home,  or  the  guardianship  of 
kind    and    competent    instructors — who,    in    a 
wordly  sense,  have  no  thought  for  to-morrow  to 
disquiet  your  minds — who  have  a  ready  balm  for 
every  wound,  and  the  truest  sympathy  for  every 
sorrow — I  would  not  cast  the  gloom  of  forebod- 
ing over  your  future  path  ;  I  would  not  check 
one  youthful  hope,  or  repress  one  generous  as- 
piration ;  but  I  would  warn  you,  that  when  you 


ISABEL.    THE    LACEMAKER.  149 

issue  from  the  sequestered  walks  in  which  you 
are  now  treading  into  the  highway  of  the  world, 
ycu  will  see  many  gorgeous  and  tempting  flowers 
about  your  path,  but  you  will  find  none  of  them 
so  sweet  as  those  which  sprang  up  in  the  quiet 
.    valley  of  domestic  or  academic  retirement. 

But  my  young  readers  will  inquire,  what  has 
all  this  to  do  with  the  young  widow  and  her 
daughter?  I  acknowledge  the  digression,  and 
hasten  to  atone  for  it  by  introducing  them. 

At  a  short  distance  from  the  place  in  which 
our  school  was  situated,  and  in  a  delightful  and 
romantic  woodland  district,  there  was  a  little  vil- 
lage, consisting  of  some  five  or  six  straggling 
cottages  ;  the  smallest,  although  the  neatest,  of 
which  was  the  dwelling  of  a  widow,  whose  name 
was  Neville,  and  her  daughter  Isabel.  From 
the  superior  manners  of  Mrs.  Neville,  it  was 
conjectured  that  she  had  once  filled  a  more  eleva- 
ted station  in  society — the  occupation  of  her- 
self and  daughter  being,  at  the  period  of  which  I 
write,  that  of  lace-making,  by  which,  as  they 
found  a  ready  sale  for  their  manufactures  among 
the  neighbouring  gentry,  they  were  enabled  to 
glean  an  humble,  although,  with  reference  to 
their  limited  wants,  a  competent  maintenance. 

Now,  among  my  schoolfellows,  there  was  one 
voung  gentleman,  between  whom  and    myself 
13* 


150  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER. 

there  existed  a  warm  friendship.  He  was  an 
orphan,  but  was  under  the  guardianship  of  an  un- 
cle, and  heir  to  very  considerable  property.  Ed- 
ward Clinton,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  was  one 
of  the  finest  youths  I  ever  beheld  ;  and  his  very 
handsome  person  was  set  off  by  the  elegance, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  propriety  and  neatness,  of 
his  dress.  Methinks  I  see  him  now,  as  then, 
with  his  dark  auburn  locks  curling  over  a  fore- 
head on  which  the  seal  of  intellect  was  set  as 
plainly  as  the  finger  of  the  Creator  upon  the  face 
of  Nature.  His  family  connexions  were  of  the 
first  order  ;  and  as  Lear  styled  himself  "  every 
inch  a  king,"  so  was  Edward  every  inch  a  gen 
tie  man.  There  was  nothing  vulgar  in  either  his 
mind  or  his  manners  :  he  was  open  and  generous, 
and,  although  very  mild  in  his  disposition,  he  was 
as  brave  as  a  lion.  Many  a  time,  when  the  ag 
gressions  of  what  we  termed  the  "  town  boys,'' 
although  there  were  not  twenty  houses  in  the 
place,  provoked  us  beyond  "  the  power  of  en- 
durance," has  he  led  us  to  victory  against  supe 
rior  numbers.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  little  hero — a 
very  beau  ideal  of  a  schoolfellow. 

It  happened  that,  one  Saturday  afternoon,  it 
being  a  holiday,  Edward  Clinton  and  I  had  gone 
on  a  fishing  excursion,  and  were  watching  our 
floats    with    intense   interest — having   chanced 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER.  151 

upon  a  shoal  of  perch — when  our  attention  was 
diverted  by  a  loud  laugh,  proceeding  from  a  path 
which  intersected  a  meadow,  about  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  bank  of  the  river.  "  There's  that 
ruffianly  fellow,  Dick,  the  butcher's  son,"  ex- 
claimed Edward,  "  cannot  find  any  better  em- 
ployment than  tormenting  that  poor  girl,  who,  if 
I  mistake  not,  is  Isabel  Neville,  the  lacemaker. 
Hollo  !"  continued  Clinton,  raising  his  voice,  and 
addressing  the  butcher,  who  was  proceeding  to 
greater  rudeness,  "  be  so  good  as  to  let  that 
young  woman  alone,  or  I  will  acquaint  your  fa- 
ther with  your  conduct."  The  butcher  replied 
with  a  laugh,  and  persisted  in  his  annoyance. 
"  Harry,"  said  my  companion,  "  we  must  never 
stand  this  :  and  yet  there  is  not  work  enough  for 
two  of  us  ;  though  the  fellow  scarcely  deserves 
fair  play.  Do  you  mind  my  rod,  while  I  go  and 
try  to  rid  the  poor  girl  of  this  cowardly  ruffian." 

Edward  was  making  his  way  to  a  gate  which 
opened  into  the  meadow,  but  a  scream  from  Isa- 
bel altered  his  purpose,  and  he  immediately  leap- 
ed the  fence,  with  the  agility  of  a  deer  ;  and  the 
butcher  found  himself  sprawling  upon  the  grass, 
before  he  was  well  aware  of  the  presence  of  his 
antagonist.  Clinton  then  approached  the  almost 
fainting  Isabel,  and,  with  a  grace  peculiar  to  him, 
offered  the   support  of  his  arm  and  walked  off 


152  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER 

with  her  in  the  direction  of  her  cottage,  which 
was  about  half  a  mile  from  the  field  of  action. 
Shortly  afterwards,  I  saw  him  come  running 
back,  bounding  over  every  obstacle  in  his  way, 
With  an  activity  which  indicated  an  exuberance  of 
spirits,  produced  by  the  excitement  of  the  scene 
in  which  he  had  performed  so  conspicuous  and 
manly  a  part.  When  he  came  up  to  me,  his  only 
observation  was,  "  Harry,  Isabel  Neville  is  a 
much  more  genteel  girl  than  I  thought  she  was  ;" 
but  I  could  perceive  that  my  friend,  although  he 
had  gained  a  victory,  had  lost  his  heart. 

From  that  time,  Edward  Clinton,  although  on 
every  other  point  as  open  towards  me  as  ever, 
was  guardedly  reserved  upon  the  subject  of  that 
evening's  adventure  ;  but,  whenever  Isabel's 
name  was  mentioned,  I  could  perceive  a  kindling 
in  his  eye  and  a  general  lighting  up  of  his  noble 
countenance,  which  he  had  not  the  art  to  dis- 
guise. 

But  Edward's  reserve  upon  this  point  did  him 
infinite  honor.  Young  as  he  was,  he  had  discre- 
tion sufficient  to  feel  convinced  that  the  differ- 
ence between  the  stations  of  Isabel  and  himself 
was  such,  that  any  indication  of  his  predilection 
could  not  but  induce  animadversion,  and  per- 
haps greater  annoyance,  upon  its  subject. 

It  was  not  very  long  after  this  occurrence,  that 


ISABEL,    THE    LA.CEMAKER.  153 

I  was  strolling  by  myself,  one  beautiful  summer 
evening,  when  I  was  startled  by  the  voice  of  a 
female  singing  within  a  few  paces  of  me.  It  was 
a  simple  and  somewhat  melancholy  air  ;  but  was 
poured  forth  with  such  sweetness,  and  there  was 
such  touching  pathos  in  its  cadences,  that  no- 
thing I  have  since  heard  of  the  sublime  or  scientific 
in  music  has  ever  penetrated  so  deeply  into  my 
bosom.  I  advanced  a  few  yards  into  the  wood 
by  which  I  was^surrounded,  and,  from  a  position 
in  which  I  was  myself  unseen,  obtained  a  view 
of  the  singer.  It  was  Isabel  Neville.  I  had  ap- 
proached the  cottage  before  I  was  aware  of  it — 
an  inadvertence  which,  from  the  wooded  situation 
of  the  village,  I  was  very  likely  to  fall  into.  She 
was  sitting  in  front  of  the  cottage,  in  the  midst  of 
a  flower  garden,  with  her  feet  upon  a  low  stool, 
and  the  pillow,  on  which  she  was  making  lace, 
upon  her  knee  ;  while  a  dog,  which  was  couch- 
ing beside  her,  was  watching,  with  pricked-up 
ears  and  eager  eyes,  the  movement  of  the  bob- 
bins as  she  cast  them  over  the  pins.  The  front 
of  the  cottage  was  nearly  covered  with  shrubs, 
and  around  her  were  flowers  in  great  profusion 
and  variety  ;  but  she  was  herself  the  loveliest 
blossom  of  them  all.  She  was  apparently  about 
seventeen.  I  have  seen  beauty,  in  the  ball-room, 
spreading  out  every  lure  "to  fix  the  gaze  of  idiot 


154  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER. 

wonder,"  and  to  draw  the  incense  of  adulation 
from  the  lips  of  the  flatterer — where  every  atti- 
tude was  studied  and  every  smile  a  counterfeit — 
and  I  have  sighed  to  think  that  vanity  should  de- 
form what  Heaven  had  made  so  lovely.  But 
here  was  beauty  powerful  in  repose  ;  conscious 
of  no  human  gaze,  and  with  no  incense  around 
her  but  the  innocent  breath  of  the  flowers,  which, 
so  was  the  place  filled  and  consecrated  by  her 
presence,  appeared  to  be  emanations  of  her  love- 
liness. Perhaps  I  gazed  upon  Isabel  under  the 
excitement  of  feelings  that  the  romantic  scene  in 
which  I  found  her,  and  the  susceptible  tempera- 
ment of  youth,  were  calculated  to  inspire  ;  or,  it 
may  be,  that,  at  this  distance,  the  mellow  tints 
of  time  have  fallen  upon  the  picture,  and  I  have 
overcharged  the  description  ;  and  yet,  meihinks, 
it  were  impossible  to  do  so.  The  spell  of  her 
beauty  was  upon  me  ;  and  I  know  not  how  long 
I  might  have  remained  under  its  influence,  had 
I  not  attracted  the  notice  of  Isabel's  dog,  which 
flew  barking  towards  my  covert ;  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  make  a  precipitate  retreat. 

It  was  some  few  weeks  after  this  occurrence, 
that,  on  the  evening  of  a  very  sultry  day,  Isabel 
and  her  lriend,  Ellen  Stanfield,  were  sitting  at 
work,  in  the  little  garden  which  I  have  already 
described,  enjoying  a  refreshing  breeze  which 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER.  155 

had  sprung  up  in  the  afternoon,  while  Mrs.  Ne- 
ville was  engaged  in  some  domestic  concerns 
within  doors.  Now,  Ellen  was  a  veiy  excellent 
young  woman,  and  was  most  affectionately  at- 
tached to  her  friend  ;  but,  in  virtue  of  her  senio- 
rity, she  being  a  whole  year  the  elder,  she  was 
wont,  occasionally,  to  assume  the  office  of  a 
Mentor,  and  to  give  Isabel  the  benefit  of  her 
more  extended  experience. 

Isabel  had  been  relating  to  her  friend  the  gal- 
lant behaviour  of  Edward  Clinton  in  the  adven- 
ture of  the  meadow;  and,  when  she  had  con- 
cluded her  narration,  Ellen  observed,  "  Upon 
my  word,  Isabel,  you  are  very  eloquent  in  the 
young  gentleman's  praise." 

"  I  should  be  very  ungrateful,"  replied  Isabel, 
4  if  I  were  not." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  her  friend,  "  I  would  not 
have  you  ungrateful,  child  :  he  is  a  good  youth, 
and  a  gallant  one,  I  will  allow ;  but  no  such  pa- 
ragon, after  all,  since  there  are  few  of  his  breed- 
ing who  would  not  have  done  as  much  for  you  ; 
and  he,  doubtless,  would  have  performed  the 
same  for  any  other  young  woman  who  had  been 
placed  in  a  similar  predicament." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  that  he  would  !"  exclaimed  Isabel 
eagerly  ;  "  he  is  far  too  generous  to  make  any 
distinctions,  where  his  humanity  is  concerned." 


156  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER. 

"  Indeed,  Isabel,"  continued  her  friend,  "  you 
appear  to  ha  ,fe  acquired  a  wonderful  insight  into 
his  good  qualities,  upon  a  very  short  acquaint- 
ance. But  perhaps  your  introduction  to  him  is 
of  earlier  date  than  the  notable  achievement, 
which  appears,  in  your  estimation,  to  have  eleva- 
ted him  into  a  hero." 

"  Well,  Ellen,"  rejoined  Isabel,  "  whatever 
opinion  others  may  entertain  upon  the  subject,  it 
does  not  become  me  to  undervalue  the  service 
he  has  rendered  me  ;  but  I  assure  you  that  I 
never  saw  him  before,  although  I  could  not  go 
into  a  cottage  in  the  village  without  hearing  of 
Edward  Clinton.  You  yourself  know  well  enough 
how  kind  and  generous  he  is  to  the  poor,  and 
that,  not  a  month  since,  when  the  widow  Hob- 
son's  donkey  fell  into  the  mill-dam  and  was 
drowned,  he  raised  a  subscription  among  his 
schoolfellows  to  buy  her  another,  and  put  down 
half-a-guinea  towards  it  himself." 

"  His  good  deeds  are  not  likely  to  remain  a 
secret  for  want  of  a  trumpeter  to  proclaim  them," 
said  Ellen  :  "  that  is  very  certain  :  he  seems  to 
have  engaged  a  very  zealous  one ;  and,  no  doubt, 
has  improved  the  acquaintance  to  which  his  va- 
lour introduced  him." 

"  How  absurdly  you  talk,"  replied  Isabel, 
somewhat  impatiently  ;  "  you  know,  or  if  you  do 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER.  i57 

not,  you  may  ask  my  mother,  and  she  will  tell 
you  that  he  has  never  been  within  our  garden 
gate." 

"  Because  he  is  tall  enough  to  ook  over  it, 
my  dear,"  said  Ellen,  drily.  "  And  pray,  when, 
and  how  often,  does  he  honour  you  with  a  visit  ?" 

"  I  know  not  if  you  can  correctly  call  it  a  visit, 
Ellen,"  answered  Isabel  ;  "  but  I  think  we 
usually  see  him  on  a  Saturday,  when  he  goes  to 
fish  in  the  mill-stream." 

"  I  fear,"  rejoined  Ellen,  "  that  he  is  more 
frequently  angling  over  your  palings  than  in  the 
river,  which,  you  appear  to  forget,  lies  about 
midway  between  his  school  and  your  cottage. 
But  seriously,  my  dear,  I  would  caution  you  not 
to  attach  too  much  importance  to  his  attentions  ; 
for,  believe  me,  any  sentiments  he  may  be  silly 
enough  to  entertain  for  a  village  maiden  will  be 
discarded,  with  his  Greek  and  Latin,  when  he 
leaves  school,  which  I  understand  he  is  about  to 
do.  Besides,  if  your  mother  were  to  discover  it, 
she  would  be  exceedingly  angry." 

It  is  possible  that  Isabel  might  have  paused  to 
cogitate  upon  the  fact  of  its  not  being  absolutely 
necessary  that  Edward  Clinton  should  pass  the 
cottage  (it  being  a  mile  out  of  the  direct  road)  on 
his  way  to  the  mill-stream,  or  that  she  might 
have  reasoned  a  little  upon  the  alleged  analogy 
14 


158  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER. 

between  love  and  the  dead  languages — and  me- 
thinks  the  formei  can  scarcely  be  classed  with 
the  latter — but  t  le  imputation  conveyed  in  the 
closing  sentence  of  Ellen's  very  edifying  lecture 
gave  a  different  direction  to  Isabel's  thoughts, 
and  she  instantly  replied,  with  considerable 
warmth — "  Nay,  Ellen,  you  much  mistake  and 
greatly  wrong  me,  if  you  imagine,  for  a  moment, 
that  I  have  any  secrets  from  my  mother.  Oh, 
no!  shall  I  repose  with  less  confidence  upon  her 
bosom  than  when  I  clung  to  it  in  infancy  1  El- 
len, she  has  nursed  me  in  sickness,  has  borne 
with  the  petulance  of  my  childhood  and  the  way- 
wardness of  my  youth,  has  ever  been  my  kind- 
est, best  of  friends  ;  and  shall  I  treat  her  with 
less  confidence  than  many  a  silly  girl  gives  to 
her  schoolfellow?  If  I  should  ever  harbour  a 
thought  which  I  should  fear  to  confide  to  my  mo- 
ther, I  shall  be  sure  that  it  is  a  sinful  one,  and  1 
will  pray  to  God  to  del'ver  me  from  its  power. 
With  regard  to  this  young  gentleman,  other  than 
kindly  I  cannot  feel  towards  one  who  has  con- 
ferred upon  me  an  obligation  which  I  may  not 
deem  a  light  one  ;  and,  should  I  ever  entertain 
for  him  sentiments  which  I  cannot  cherish  with 
propriety  or  safety,  she,  to  whom  my  heart  shall 
ever  be  open,  will  not  fail  to  warn  me  of  my 
danger  ' 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER.  159 

Ellen,  who  really  loved  Isabel,  forgetting  the 
monitress  in  the  friend,  threw  her  arms  around 
her  neck,  implored  her  forgiveness  for  having 
unintentionally  distressed  her,  and  promised 
never  to  allude  to  the  subject  again. 

In  a  few  months  after  this  conversation,  Ed- 
ward Clinton  left  school  for  the  University  ;  and 
year  after  year  passed  away,  and  each  succeed- 
ing one  found  the  circumstances  of  the  widow 
and  her  daughter  materially  changed  for  the 
worse.  The  fashions  had  altered,  and  the  article 
from  the  manufacture  of  which  they  had  once 
derived  a  comfortable  subsistence,  was  no  lon- 
ger, to  use  a  mercantile  phrase,  in  demand.  Is- 
abel, who  was  a  pattern  of  filial  affection,  then 
resorted  to  her  needle,  and  submitted  to  num- 
berless privations,  in  order  that  the  reverse  of 
fortune  might  not  be  felt  by  her  mother,  whose 
age  and  infirmities  required  increased  attention, 
and  many  comforts  which  were  more  than  ever 
beyond  their  reach. 

One  fine  evening  in  the  spring,  Isabel  was 
sitting  at  needlework  in  the  garden,  almost  re- 
signing herself  to  those  melancholy  feelings  which 
her  unpropitious  circumstances  so  naturally  pro- 
duced, and  which  even  religion,  powerful  as  was 
its  influence  upon  her  heart  and  concfuct,  occa- 
sionally failed  to  n  itigate  ;  and  she  was  con- 


160  ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER. 

trasting  in  her  mind  the  present  season  of  diffi- 
culty and  distress  with  those  past  and  happy 
days  when  she  had  little  care  upon  her  mind. 
Among  other  objects  which  the  retrospect  called 
up  to  fancy's  view,  was  the  form  of  Edward  Clin- 
ton ;  and  she  thought  upon  the  merry  look  and 
the  courteous  smile  with  which  he  was  wont  to 
greet  her  and  her  mother  on  a  Saturday  after- 
noon. "  But  he  has  forgotten  me,"  said  Isabel, 
mentally  ;  "  for  the  memory  of  their  good  deeds 
dwells  not  long  with  the  generous."  She  sigh- 
ed, and  looked  up  towards  the  well  remembered 
spot  in  the  fence  of  the  garden,  where  he  was 
wont  to  post  himself,  with  his  fishing-rod  in  his 
hand  and  his  basket  belted  under  his  arm  ;  when, 
lo  !  an  apparition  met  her  eyes  which  occasion- 
ed her  to  utter  an  exclamation,  and,  dropping  her 
work,  she  hurried  into  the  cottage. 

I  am  sure  T  do  not  know  what  there  was  to  be 
frightened  at,  for  she  might  have  paced  the  most 
populous  churchyard,  from  Midsummer  to 
Christmas,  and  not  have  met  with  a  more  hand- 
some apparition.  Tt  was  Edward  Clinton,  in 
very  flesh  and  blood. 

The  occurrences  of  the  few  weeks  which  fol- 
lowed this  rencontre,  I  am  not  able  to  narrate, 
but  I  infer  that  my  friend  made  good  use  of  his 
time  ;  since,  on  a  fine  sunshiny  summer's  morn- 


ISABEL,    THE    LACEMAKER.  161 

mg,  it  was  reported  that  one  of  the  village  bells 
had  been  cracked,  and  that,  with  reference  to  the 
occasion,  Mr.  Clinton  considered  himself  bound 
to  furnish  the  steeple  with  a  new  set.  It  was,  in- 
deed, whispered,  by  some  officious  and  ill-natur- 
ed persons,  that  the  said  bell  had  received  an 
awkward  knock  before,  and  that  Edward  was 
the  first  wealthy  man  who  had  been  married  at 
the  church  since  the  accident  ;  but  I  attach  no 
credit  whatever  to  the  insinuation.  Little>»re- 
mains  for  me  to  record,  except  that  the  humility 
which  adorned  the  tenant  of  th  >  cottsure  survived 
her  change,  of  fortune,  to  grace  the  mistress  of 
the  mansion  ;  while  Edward,  so  far  from  regret- 
ting that  he  had  taken  to  his  bosom  a  dowerless 
bride,  became  daily  more  convinced  of  the  truth, 
that  a  woman's  richest  portion  is  virtue  and  af- 
fection, 


LITTLE  GOODY  TWO  SHOES. 

BY   J.    F.    HOLLINGS,    ESQ. 

Who  has  not  heard  the  story,  told 
Of  that  patient  child  of  old, 
Who,  when  friends  were  dead  an  J  gone 
And  the  world  looked  coldiy  on, 
With  no  fairy  power  endued, 
Labour's  rugged  path  pursued  ; 
Meeting  sorrow's  darkest  hour 
With  a  calm  and  gentle  power, 
Till,  (the  lengthened  trial  past,) 
Honor  crowned  her  toils  at  last  1 

Look  !   behold  her,  as  she  sits 
Where  the  light  wind,  sighing,  flits 
Through  the  trees  whose  boughs  have  made 
Coolness  and  a  pleasant  shade. — 
Far  behind  the  mountain  blue 
Fadeth  in  the  onward  view, 
And  the  river  wanders  by 
With  its  summer  melody, — 


LITTLE    GOODY    TWO    SHOES.  163 

Overhead  are  cloudless  skies  , 
Flowers,  of  everc hanging  dyes, 
Gem  the  verdant  turf  below 
With  a  rich  and  varied  show. 

In  her  hand  the  unfolded  rose 
Childhood's  fleeting  emblem,  glows  5 
But  her  face,  the  fair  impress 
Wears  of  youthful  happiness  ; 
Wherefore  not  1 — a  wealth  is  hers, 
Better  than  the  world  confers  ; 
Hope  untried,  and  always  new, — 
Innocence,  of  spotless  hue, — 
And  those  treasures  of  the  mind 
Which  the  lowliest  heart  shall  find 
If  its  search  be  rightly  bent, — 
Golden  mirth,  and  light  content  I 


THE  DEADLY  NIGHTSHADE. 

A  FACT. 

L 

Two  lovely  little  children  went,  when  summer 

was  in  prime, 
Into  a  garden  beautiful,  beneath  a  southern  clime ; 
A  brother  and  a  sister — twins,  and  each  to  each 

most  dear, — 
Was  not  the  mother  of  these  babes  beset  with  any 

fear  1 


II. 

And  brightly  shone  the  summer  sun  upon  that 
gentle  pair, 

Who  plucked  each  gaudy  flower  that  grew  in  rich 
profusion  there, 

Or  chased  the  idle  butterflies,— those  fair,  de- 
fenceless things, 

That  round  them  tantalizing  danced  upon  their 
silken  wings. 


\ 


THE    DEADLY    NIGHTSHADE*  "S^ 

III. 

With  many  a  flower  which  they  nad  plucked,  fs 

mimic  grove  they  made, 
But  wondered,  when  they  came  again,  they  haa 

so  soon  decayed  ; 
And  grieving,  each  the  other  asked,  why  all  the 

roses  red, 
Which  freshly  bloomed   an   hour  before,   now 

drooping  hung  their  head  % 

IV. 

'Twas  in  that  season  of  the  year  when  on  the 

blooming  earth 
Each  flower  and  plant,  and  shrub  and  tree,  to  all 

their  fruits  gave  birth  : 
But  'mid  them  all,  and  most  exposed  to  catch 

the  passing  view, 
With  purple  flowers  and  berries  red,  the  Deadly 

Nightshade  grew ! 

V. 

Up  rose  the  little  boy  and  ran,  upon  the  bush  to 

gaze, 
And  then  his  sister  followed  quick,  and  both 

were  in  amaze  ; 


166  THE    DEADLY    NIGHTSHADE. 

For  berries  half  so  beautiful  they  ne'er  before  had 

seen, 
So  forth  he  rashly  stretched  his  hand  among  the 

branches  green. 

VI. 

"  Oh,  Edward  !  Edward  !  do  not  touch.  Re- 
member, mother  said, 

That  poisonous  fruit  in  clusters  grew,  though 
beautiful  and  red  ; 

And  that  it  had  a  tempting  look,  inviting  to  the 
eye, 

But  if  a  single  one  we  eat,  that  we  should  surely 
die." 

VII. 
"0!    Charlotte,  Charlotte,  do  you  think  that 

these  can  do  us  harm, 
Or  that  such  pretty  fruit  as  this  need  cause  U3 

such  alarm  ? 
For  surely,  if  they  poisonous  are,  they  bitter  then 

must  be, 
So  I  will  taste  a  single  one,  and  we  shall  quickly 

see !" 

Vffl. 
Then  forth  he  stretched  his  little  hand,  and  he  a 

berry  plucked, 
And  to  his  lips  he  put  the  fruit,  and  in  the  poison 

sucked  , 


THE    DEADLY    NIGHTSHADE.  167 

And  when  he  found  the  juice  was  good,  he  b&oo 

his  sister  eat, — 
"  For  it  is  pleasant  to  the  taste — so  cooling  and 

so  sweet." 

IX. 

liiese   children  then  the  berries  pulled,  and  o* 

them  eat  their  fill, — 
Nor  did  they  ever  dream  the  while,  that  th^.y 

were  doing  ill. 
"  'Tis  not  the  fruit  that  mother  meant,"  exulting- 

ly  they  cried ; 
And  merry  was  their  prattling  laugh,  to  see  their 

fingers  dyed. 

X. 

But  suddenly  the  sister  stopped,  her  rosy  cheek 

grew  pale — 
*•  Ot  brother !  brother !  hold  me  up,  for  something 

doth  me  ail — 
I  feci  so  weak,  I  cannot  stand,— the  trees  are 

dancing  round : 
"  Oh,  Edward  !   Edward  !  clasp  my  hand,  and 

place  me  on  the  ground," 

XI. 
He  gently  laid  his  sister  down,  and  bitterly  did 

cry, 
And  every  means  to  ease  her  pain  and  calm  her 

fears  did  try ; 


168  THE    DEADLY    NIGHTSHADE. 

But  soon  he  felt  himself  turn  sick,  and  feeble — 

chilly — weak, — 
And,  as  he  tottered  on  the  grass,  he  bruised  hia 

sister's  cheek. 

XII. 
Exhausted  though  that  infant  was,  upon  his  ten 

der  breast 
He  placed  the  little  Charlotte's  head,  that  she 

might  softer  rest : 
The  hapless  creature  did  but  think  his  sister  only 

slept ! 
And  when  his  eyesight  dimmer  grew,  to  her  hs 

closer  crept. 

XIII. 

The  evening  closed  upon  these  babes,  who  slepc 
away  their  breath  ; 

A/.d,  mourning  o'er  his  cruel  task,  away  went 
grieving  Death  : — 

And  they  who  had  the  sacred  trust,  those  che- 
rubs dear  to  keep, 

Beheld  them  where  they  quiet  lay,  but  thought 
they  were  asleep. 

XIV. 
When  they  the  hapless  sufferers  raised  from  tnat 

last,  fond  embrace, 
A  half-formed  smile  was  seen  to  dwell  upon  each 

paly  face ; 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT.        169 

Alas  !  that  such  twin  roses  fair,  which  morning 

saw  in  bloom, 

Should  wither  in  the  sunny  land,  ere  came  the 

twilight  gloom. 

Florence. 


►©Jo. 


THE  BIRDS  AND  THE  BEGGAR  OF 
BAGDAT. 

BY    MISS   JEWSBXJRT. 

*•  What  a  miserable  world  this  is  !"  exclaim- 
ed Karoun  the  beggar,  as  he  sat  one  day  at  the 
gates  of  the  city  of  Bagdat ;  "  were  I  to  make  it 
over  again,  I  could  exceedingly  mend  it !  My 
world  should  contain  no  kings,  and  certainly  no 
cadis — every  one  should  do  that  which  was  right 
in  his  own  eyes — it  should  be  possible  to  get 
money  without  working  for  it — and  knowledge 
without  learning.  Allah!  what  a  miserable  world 
i3  this.  Of  what  use  are  the  tribes  of  children, 
for  ever  interrupting  one  with  their  noisy  play  'I — 
Without  doubt,  we  should  be  well  rid  of  some 
thousands ; — and  their  mothers, — why  are  women 
such  tender,  delicate  creatures  1  In  my  world 
15 


170      THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 

they  should  be  as  strong  as  horses,  and  dig,  and 
plant,  and  go  to  battle  like  their  husbands.  Then, 
with  regard  to  gold,  and  silver,  and  precious 
stones,  there  should  either  be  plenty  for  every 
one,  or  else  none  at  all, — the  same  of  palaces — 
the  same  of  fine  horses  and  rich  clothes.  As  to 
diseases  and  misfortunes, — I  would  abolish  them 
altogether,  just  as  I  would  do  away  with  poisons, 
precipices,  storms,  earthquakes,  and  whatever 
else  tends  to  shorten  life.  Oh,  what  a  beautiful 
world  I  could  make  of  this  !  However,  I  feel  in- 
clined for  a  nap,  at  present,  so  I  will  remove  to 
yonder  grove  for  the  benefit  of  the  shade." 

The  self-complacent  beggar  accordingly 
stretched  himself  beneath  a  large  plane  tree,  and 
presently  fell  into  a  sound  slumber  ;  in  which 
slumber  he  was  visited  with  the  following  dream. 
— He  fancied  himself  exactly  where  he  was,  ly- 
ing under  a  plane  tree,  but  he  also  fancied  he 
heard  a  most  extraordinary  noise  proceed  from 
the  branches.  He  further  fancied  that,  on  lifting 
up  his  eyes  to  discover  the  cause,  he  found  the 
plane  tree  filled  with  birds  of  all  nations,  and 
occupied,  according  to  their  ability,  in  scream- 
ing, singing,  whistling,  and  chattering.  They 
were  more  vociferous  than  all  the  beggars  of 
Bagdat,  and  grievously  annoyed  our  friend  Ra- 
roun.     By  and  by  the  plane  tree  became  quiet, 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT.       171 

the  birds  ranged  themselves  on  the  boughs,  in 
companies  according  to  their  kind, — and  the  beg- 
gar discovered  that  it  was  a  "  Parliament  of 
Birds,"  met  to  deliberate  on  the  state  of  the  fea- 
thered world.  The  golden  eagle  sat  aloft  in 
silent  majesty  ;  and  a  venerable  horned  owl 
opened  the  business  of  the  meeting,  by  entreat- 
ing the  members  to  conduct  the  debate  with  de- 
corum, and  bear  in  mind  that  wisdom  was  never 
confined  to  the  birds  of  one  generation.  He 
was  followed  by  a  superb  red-and-green  parrot, 
who  scratched  his  head,  and  spoke  as  follows. 

"  I  conceive  that,  for  many  ages,  birds  have 
been  grossly  ill  used  by  nature  ;  and  I  hail  the 
meeting  of  the  present  assembly,  as  a  proof  that 
the  rights  and  privileges  of  all  who  have  claws 
and  beaks  are  about  to  be  better  understood.  1 
do  not  speak  for  myself.  My  fate  makes  me 
the  associate  of  man,  and  the  favorite  of  ladies  ; 
I  am  fed  with  dainties,  and  observe  all  that  passes 
in  dining  and  drawing  rooms — for  myself,  I  have 
little  reason  to  complain — I  speak  as  a  patriot  ; 
— why  should  not  all  birds  have  the  privileges  of 
parrots  1  Is  it  not  gross  partiality,  that  we  alone 
should  have  gilt  cages  ?" 

The  speaker  ceased  amidst  tremendous  ap- 
plause.    A  crow  spoke  next. 

"  I  agree  with  the  parrot,"  said  he,  "  in  blam- 


172       THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 

ing  nature  ;  but  I  disagree  with  him,  as  to  his 
mode  of  charging  her  injustice.  The  evil  lies 
deeper.  There  ought  to  be  no  gilt  cages  ;  no 
fine  plumage  ;  no  sweet  voices  amongst  us.  Why 
is  one  kind  of  bird  to  be  exalted  over  another  1 
and  yet  this  will  ever  be  the  case  whilst  these 
vain  and  useless  distinctions  remain  in  force. 

"  Why  am  I  to  serve  the  farmer,  by  clearing 
his  fields  of  grubs  and  worms,  and  be  consi- 
dered a  lowlived  bird  because  I  am  only  useful  ; 
whilst  the  nightingale  is  to  be  followed  by  admi- 
ration, because  she — sings  !  Why  does  not  man 
write  poetry  about  me  1  What  is  the  nightingale 
but  a  bird  like  myself?  is  not  she" — 

Here  the  crow  was  called  to  order,  and  a  very 
beautiful  dove  spoke  next. 

"  I  do  not  complain,"  said  she,  "  of  what  the 
preceding  orators  have  complained  ;  my  com- 
plaint is,  that  distinction  does  not  make  amends 
for  conscious  weakness.  What  signify  my 
delicate  plumage  and  tender  note,  while  I  want 
the  eagle's  wing,  and  the  hawk's  eye." 

Here  the  owl  attempted  to  speak  next,  but  was 
prevented  by  a  magpie. 

"  My  case,"  said  the  chatterer,  "  is  harder 
still ;  my  plumage  is  beautiful,  but  no  one  will 
own  it  ; — I  talk,  but  no  one  will  listen  to  me  ; — 
I  am  a  persecuted  bird — an  envied  genius." 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT.       173 

Here  the  magpie  was  interrupted  by  a 
sparrow. 

"  Why  am  I  to  be  shot  for  a  dumpling,  any 
more  than  the  red-breast  1" 

"  And  why,"  said  the  Lark,  "  am  I  to  be  roast- 
ed, any  more  than  the  nightingale  V9 

"  Why  are  we  to  be  preyed  upon  by  kites  and 
hawks  V9  said  all  the  little  birds  in  chorus. 

"  Let  us  rebel,"  said  the  tomtits. 

"  Let  us  be  kites  and  hawks  ourselves,"  said 
the  jenny-wrens. 

"  Let  us  leave  man  to  pick  up  his  own  cater- 
pillars," said  the  sparrows  ;  "  the  world  will 
come  to  an  end  without  us  !" 

"  It  will !  It  will  !"  screamed  all  the  birds 
that  were  precisely  of  the  least  consequence. 

At  this  point,  at  once  of  the  dream  and  the  de- 
bate, Karoun  fancied  that  he  was  called  upon  for 
his  opinion,  and  that  he  thus  addressed  the  con- 
gress of  birds  : — 

"  With  the  exception  of  the  eagle  and  the  owl, 
who,  to  do  them  justice,  are  sensible,  well-be- 
haved bipeds,  you  are  a  set  of  foolish,  insolent, 
half-witted  creatures,  not  worthy  of  wearing  fea- 
thers. Listen  now  to  reason  ;  and  since  birds 
cannot  blush,  hide  you  heads  under  your  wings 
for  shame. 

"  In  the  first  olace,  Mr.  Parrot,  if  every  bird  is 
15* 


174       THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 

to  live  in  a  gilt  cage,  and  hang  up  in  a  drawing- 
room,  pray  where  is  man  to  live  himself? 

"  In  the  second  place,  I  ask  Mr.  Crow,  whe- 
ther he  clears  the  farmers'  fields  of  worms  from 
love  to  the  farmer,  or  from  desire  of  a  good  meal? 

*  Thirdly,  if  any  of  you,  after  a  reasonable  en- 
joyment of  life,  object  to  being  killed  to  feed 
man,  why,  I  ask,  may  not  the  grubs  and  flies  also 
object  to  being  killed,  in  order  to  feed  you  ? 

"  Fourthly,  if  you  were  all  of  one  kind — all 
eagles  or  all  kites — would  there  not  be  ten  times 
more  fighting  amongs-t  you  than  there  is  ?  and 
what,  I  ask,  must  you  all  live  upon  ? 

"Fifthly,  if  you  object  to  dying  altogether,  and 
yet  continue  to  treble  your  numbers  every  year, 
how,  I  ask,  is  the  world  to  hold  you  all  ?  As  for 
you,"  continued  the  beggar,  turning  in  great 
wrath  towards  the  sparrows,  the  chaffinches,  the 
larks,  the  wrens,  and  all  who  resembled  them, 
"  who  is  it  that  steals  man's  corn — eats  man's 
cherries — pecks  man's  peas?  little, mischievous, 
prating  varlets  as  you  are,  your  lives  are  forfeit 
ed  fifty  times  before  they  are  taken  ! 

'«  Lastly,  I  entreat  you  all,  from  the  eagle 
down  to  the  tomtit,  to  look  away  from  your  own 
individual  interests,  to  the  interests  of  the  world, 
of  which  you  form  but  a  small  portion.  I  do  as- 
sure you,  my  friends,  it  is  infinitely  better,  on  the 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT.        175 

whole,  that  you  should  differ  from  each  other, 
just  as  you  do  ; — that  some  should  be  strong, 
some  weak,  some  beautiful,  some  ugly  ;  some 
wear  fine  coats,  and  some  plain  ones.  And 
nowbegone,  every  one  of  you. — Disperse,  I  say  ! 
— and  instead  of  wishing  to  amend  nature,  try  to 
mend  your  own  manners." 

Straightway  there  was  a  great  whirring  of 
wings  in  the  air,  occasioned  by  the  breaking  up  of 
the  bird  parliament ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  all 
was  silent.  It  was  now  Karoun's  turn  to  be  re- 
proved. 

"  Presumptuous  mortal !"  said  an  awful  voice. 
Karoun  started — and  behold,  he  saw  in  his 
dream  a  majestic  form  by  his  side,  clothed  with 
wings  and  shining  garments. — "  Presumptuous 
mortal !"  continued  the  Genius,  "  thou  hast  had 
no  pity  on  the  folly  of  the  birds,  and  yet  thine 
own  is  far  greater.  Thou  mend  the  world ! 
Thy  mending  would  be  its  destruction  !  Were 
there  no  disease  and  no  misfortune,  how  could 
man  exercise  the  virtues  which  fit  him  to  enjoy 
Paradise  ?  As  to  death,  is  it  other  than  a  blessing 
to  the  righteous  1  And  if  thou  art  wicked,  is  it 
not  thine  own  fault?  Next,  if  all  possessed  riches, 
who  must  work  1  And  if  no  oi*e  had  riches,  who 
must  pay  for  that  work  ?  Also,  if  every  one  were 
wise,  who  must  learn  ]     And  if  every  one  were 


176       THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 

ignorant,  who  must  teach  ?  Again,  if  all  had 
leisure,  and  there  were  no  law  or  cadi,  thou 
thinkest  the  world  would  be  happier  ; — no  such 
thing !  where  there  are  two  battles  there  would 
be  twenty  ;  where  there  are  five  robberies  there 
would  be  fifty  ;  and  for  one  lazy,  discontented 
vagabond  like  thyself,  there  would  be  a  thousand ! 
Get  up,  Karoun,  and  go  about  thy  business  ;  and 
instead  of  wishing  to  mend  the  world,  try  to 
mend  thine  own  manners." 

Thus  saying,  the  Genius  vanished,  and  Ka 
roun  immediately  awoke.  After  musing  awhile 
on  his  strange  dream,  he  returned  to  the  city  of 
Bagdat  much  wiser  than  he  had  left  it.  It  is  but 
fair  to  say,  that  he  immediately  gave  up  his  pro- 
fession as  a  beggar,  and  hiring  himself  to  a 
fisherman,  became  a  much  more  respectable 
and  contented  personage  than  he  had  ever  been 
before. 


THE  HOUSE  SPARROW. 

BY   BARRY    CORNWALL. 

Virginibus  puerisque  canto. 

I  sing  this  verse  for  boys  and  girls. 

Touch  not  the  little  Sparrow,  who  doth  build, 
His  home  so  near  us.     He  doth  follow  us 
From  spot  to  spot,  amidst  the  turbulent  town, 
And  ne'er  deserts  us.     To  all  other  birds 
The  woods  suffice,  the  rivers,  the  sweet  fields, 
And  Nature  in  her  aspect  mute  and  fair  ; 
But  he  doth  herd  with  man.     Blithe  servant ! 

live, 
Feed,  and  grow  cheerful !  On  my  window's  ledge 
I'll  leave  thee  every  morning  some  fit  food, 
In  payment  of  thy  service. — Doth  he  serve  ? — 
Ay,  serves,  and  teaches.     His  familiar  voice, 
His  look  of  love,  his  sure  fidelity, 
Bids  us  be  gentle  with  so  small  a  friend  ; 
And  much  we  learn  from  acts  of  gentleness. 


178  THE    HOUSE    SPARROW 

Doth  he  not  teach  1 — Ay,  and  doth  serve  us  too. 
Who  clears  our  homes  from  many  a  noisome 

thing, 
Insect  or  reptile  ;  and  when  we  do  mark 
With  what  nice   care  he  builds  his   nest,  and 

guards 
His  offspring  from  all  harm, — and  how  he  goes* 
A  persevering,  bold  adventurer, 
'Midst  hostile  tribes,  twenty  times  big  as  he, 
Skill,  perseverance,  courage,  parent  love, — 
In  all  these  acts  we  see,  and  may  do  well, 
In  our  own  lives,  perhaps,  when  need  doth  ask, 
To  imitate  the  little  household  bird. 

Untiring  follower !  what  doth  chain  thee  here  ? 
What  bond's  'tween  thee  and  man !     Thy  food 

the  same 
As  theirs  who  wing  the  woods, — thy  voice  as 

wild, 
Thy  wants,  thy  power  the  same, — we  nothing  do 
To  serve  thee,  and  few  love   thee  ;  yet  thou 

hang'st 
About  our  dwellings,  like  some  humble  friend, 
Whom  custom  and  kind  thoughts  do  link  to  us, 
And  no  neglect  can  banish. 

So,  long  live 
The  household  Sparrow  !  mav  he  thrive  for  ever! 


THE    HOUSE    SPARROW.  179 

For  ever  twitter  forth  his  morning  song, 
A.  brief,  but  sweet  domestic  melody  ! 

Long  may  he  live  !  and  he  who  aims  to  kill 
Our  small  companion,  let  him  think  how  he 
Would  feel  if  great  men  spurned  him  from  their 

hearths, 
Or  tyrant  doomed  him,  who  had  done  no  wrong, 
To  pains  or  sudden  death.     Then  let  him  think, 
Ana  ne  will  spare  the  little  trustful  bird  ; 
And  his  one  act  of  clemency  will  teach 
His  heart  a  lesson  that  shall  widen  it, 
For  nothing  makes  so  bright  the  soul,  as  when 
Pity  doth  temper  wisdom. 


THE  RESTLESS  BOY. 


BY    MRS.    OPIE. 


There  is  nothing  more  trying  to  the  patience 
of  preceptors  or  companions  of  children,  than 
restlessness  ; — than  the  wish  to  be  where  they 
are  not,  and  the  signs  of  their  being  weary  of 
■what  they  are  employed  upon. 

This  trying  restlessness,  and  desire  of  change, 
was  never  more  obvious  than  in  Merrick  Mor- 
rison— a  little  spoiled  boy,  whom  his  kind  uncle 
and  aunt,  Sir  George  and  Lady  Pemberton,  had 
received  into  their  family  to  spend  his  holidays, 
because  a  fever  had  broken  out  in  his  own  ;  and 
not  a  day  passed  that  did  not  convince  them 
what  an  unsuitable  companion  he  was  for  their 
children.  They  would  have  thought  him  a  dan- 
gerous example  also,  had  they  not  observed, 
that  Edward  and  Harry,  their  amiable  twins, 
were  quite  as  much  aware  of  Merrick's  defects 
as  they  themselves,  and  were  equally  tired  of  his 
company  ;  though  they  were  too  well  educated 


THE    RESTLESS    BOY.  181 

to  make  his  faults  the  subject  of  conversation, 
and  too  well  taught  not  to  do  all  in  their  power 
to  amuse  their  guest. 

For  this  purpose,  as  soon  as  their  lessons  were 
over,  during  which  Merrick  usually  yawned  an- 
noyingly  loud  over  the  book  which  Sir  George 
insisted  on  his  reading,  that  he  might  not  spend 
all  his  time  in  idleness,  they  used  to  challenge 
Merrick  to  different  athletic  exercises  ;  to  swam 
the  rope,  as  it  is  called  ;  to  jump  over  a  bar  ;  to 
run  races  ;  or  to  dig  with  them  in  their  garden, 
and  play  at  battledore  and  shuttlecock  ;  but  he 
was  soon  tired  of  each  amusement  in  its  turn, 
and  usually  said,  after  a  while — "  Come,  I  am 
tired  of  this  ;  let  us  go  to  something  else  !"  It 
was  the  same  thing  if  they  took  a  walk  to  see  a 
fine  prospect.  The  moment  they  had  reached 
it,  Merrick  cried  out — "  Come,  let  us  go  to  ano- 
ther view  ;  I  am  tired  of  this  !"  And  though  his 
companions  expressed  their  delight  in  the  pros- 
pect before  them,  he  did  not  let  them  rest  till 
they  followed  him  whither  his  impatient  spirit 
led  ;  and  when  there,  he  was  as  eager  to  quit 
what  he  had  so  eagerly  desired  to  reach.  On 
these  occasions,  Henry  could  scarcely  keep  his 
contempt  to  himself;  but  Edward's  feeling  was 
more  that  of  pity  for  the  poor  boy's  bad  education, 
and  this  led  him  sometimes  to  endeavour  to  pre- 
16 


182  THE    RESTLESS    BOY. 

vail  on  him  to  control  his  restless  impatience 
and  try  to  enjoy  the  present  scene,  as  he  anc 
Harry  did.  But  in  vain.  Merrick  would  eithei 
yawn  while  he  spoke,  or  tumble  on  the  grass,  01 
whistle,  to  show  how  entirely  he  disregarded  his. 
cousin's  remonstrances. 

As  change  of  any  kind  was  delightful  to  Mer- 
rick, he  jumped  for  joy  when  he  heard  that  his 
uncle  and  aunt  were  going  to  remove  to  a  house 
which  they  had  on  the  coast,  in  order  to  receive  a 
brother  of  Sir  George's,  who  had  been  out  with 
a  navy  captain  of  his  acquaintance,  on  a  cruize 
for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  and  he  was  to  be 
landed  there,  as  the  vessel  would  pass  that  shore 
on  its  way  into  harbour. 

Now,  then,  Merrick  was  all  for  the  sea  and 
the  cliffs  ;  and  he  was  so  impatient  to  be  gone, 
that  he  even  assisted  his  cousins  to  pack  up, 
though  there  was  scarcely  any  thing  that  he  fold- 
ed or  packed,  which  had  not  to  be  folded  or 
packed  over  again  ;  however,  as  Edward  kindly 
said,  "  the  will  to  be  useful  must  be  accepted  for 
the  deed."  And,  having  tumbled  his  own  things 
into  his  trunk,  Merrick  came  down,  two  stairs  at 
a  time,  when  he  heard  the  joyful  sound  of 
*«  Come,  boys,  come  ;  the  carriage  is  at  the 
door !" 

When  they  reached  their  new  abode,  Merrick 


THE    RESTLESS    BOY.  183 

could  not  rest  till  he  had  run  down  to  the  sea  ; 
and  as  he  was  sure  he  should  not  leave  the  shore 
till  it  was  quite  dark,  his  cousins,  who  were  fond 
of  drying  sea-weed,  and  picking  up  stones  to 
class,  as  they  were  versed  in  natural  history,  took 
their  tin  cases  with  them,  and  a  basket  to  hold 
the  stones  ;  but  Merrick,  restless  as  the  billows 
which  he  looked  upon,  became  tired  of  the  shore 
in  a  very  short  time  ;  and,  as  he  had  never  been 
used  to  consider  any  one  but  himself,  his  most 
obliging  cousins  were  forced  to  give  up  their  pur- 
suits almost  as  soon  as  they  were  begun,  and  to 
follow  Merrick  to  the  garden. 

The  next  day  their  uncle  Pemberton  was  ex 
pected  ;  and,  as  Merrick  had  never  seen  a  large 
ship,  he  was  in  great  joy  at  the  idea  of  seeing 
one,  and  he  was  constantly  wearying  each  of  the 
family  in  turn  with  "  Well,  but  when  will  the  ship 
come  1  I  am  so  tired  of  looking  for  it — I  say, 
when  will  it  come  V9 

"  That  must  depend  on  the  wind  and  tide, 
Merrick,  and  perhaps  it  may  not  come  till 
evening." 

"  Oh,  deaw  uncle  !  I  shall  be  tired  to  death  of 
waiting  till  then." 

"  Not  if  you  are  employed  like  your  cousins, 
Merrick.  Read  Lazy  Lawrence  ;  here  it  is, 
and  I  think  it  might  do  you  good." 


184  THE    RESTLESS    B01T. 

"  Yes,  uncle,  I  will." 

But  the  interesting  tale  was  soon  thrown  aside, 
and  Merrick  got  up  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Whither  are  you  going,  Merrick  V9 

"  To  the  stable,  uncle,  to  Tom  ?" 

"  What  do  you  want  with  him  1  I  do  not  allow 
my  sons  to  go  into  the  stable,  or  to  play  with 
Tom." 

"  Oh,  I  only  want  to  see  the  horses  rubbed 
down." 

"  Then  I  beg  you  to  stay  where  you  are,  as 
you  are  not  intended  for  a  groom  ;  and  here  is  a 
book  of  prints  to  turn  over  ;  when  your  cousins 
have  finished  their  lessons,  they  shall  walk  with 
you." 

So  poor  Merrick  was  forced  to  sit  down  again, 
and  turn  over  the  prints  ;  but  he  did  it  so  care- 
lessly, that  his  uncle  was  obliged  to  take  the  book 
away,  lest  it  should  be  spoiled. 

At  last,  the  lessons  were  over,  and  his  cousins 
at  liberty  ; — but  which  way  should  they  go  ? 
Merrick  was  all  for  the  sea  and  the  shore  now  ; 
and  he  was  so  amused  with  jumping  over  the 
little  channels  made  by  the  waves,  and  throwing 
stones  into  the  billows,  that  he  was  less  impa- 
tient to  go  to  a  new  scene  than  usual,  to  his 
cousins'  joy,  who  were  therefore  able  to  pick  up 
a  large  quantity  of  stones,  and  sea-weed,  and 


THE    RESTLESS    BOY.  185 

who  were  in  hopes  that  the  vessel  bearing  their 
uncle  to  them  would  now  appear  in  sight  very 
soon,  is  they  saw  Sir  George  and  Lady  Pem- 
berton  on  the  cliff,  watching  for  it,  with  a  tele- 
scope. To  their  great  mortification^  however, 
Merrick  at  last  grew  tired  of  his  new  sport,  and 
would  not  let  them  alone  till  he  had  made  them 
go  up  the  cliff  again  ;  and  when  there,  he  would 
go  and  explore  a  thick  copse,  some  way  up  the 
road  from  the  cliff,  where  he  had  been  told  there 
were  fine  nuts  and  blackberries.  In  vain  did  his 
cousins  assure  him,  that  if  they  went  they  might 
possibly  not  see  the  ship  come  in  ;  he  said,  if 
they  would  not  come,  he  would  go  alone  :  and, 
as  his  uncle  and  aunt  were  not  sorry  to  accustom 
their  dear  boys  to  make  little  sacrifices  of  their 
will  to  oblige  others,  Edward  and  Harry  were  ad- 
vised by  them  to  go  with  their  guest ;  adding,  that 
as  there  were  vipers  in  one  part  of  the  copse,  they 
must  warn  Merrick  not  to  go  near  it.  The  obe- 
dient boys,  therefore,  gave  up  their  own  will,  and 
accompanied  the  self-willed  Merrick. 

The  copse  was  indeed  full  of  blackberries  and 
nuts  ;  and  the  greedy  Merrick  did  not  know 
which  to  begin  upon  first ;  but  recollecting  that 
he  could  put  the  nuts  into  his  pockets  and  eat 
them  at  home,  but  could  not  so  easily  carry  away 

blackberries,  he  ate  them  first,  wondering  that  his 
16* 


IS6  THE    RESTLESS    BOY. 

cousins,  from  fear  of  staining  their  mouths  and 
clean  shirts,  should  deny  themselves  such  a 
treat. 

"  But  we  expect  to  be  called  to  see  the  ship, 
and  my  uncle,  every  moment,"  said  Harry,  "  and 
had  rather  not  make  ourselves  unfit  to  be  seen." 

"  Nonsense  !  I  do  not  believe  the  ship  will 
come  at  all  ;  and  these  berries  are  so  nice,  and 
this  is  such  a  nice  wood  :  I  shall  not  go,  though 
you  do,  but  stay  here  and  enjoy  myself." 

"  But  you  never  saw  a  large  ship,  Merrick  !" 

"  No,  nor  do  I  ever  desire  it,  unless  I  have 
nothing  better  to  do." 

At  this  moment,  Harry  cried  out,  "Hark  !  I 
am  sure  T  heard  a  shout !"  and  instantly  ran  off 
to  the  cliff.  Edward  would  fain  have  followed 
him  ;  but  Merrick,  having  now  satisfied  himself 
with  blackberries,  had  now  plunged  into  the 
copse,  and  had  mounted  a  very  tall  nut  bush, 
which  seemed  to  have  the  ripest  fruit,  and  from 
which  Edward  had  vainly  warned  him,  as  being 
near  the  spot  at  which  the  vipers  had  been  seen. 
He,  therefore,  from  a  sense  of  duty,  staid  with 
Merrick  ;  but  very  earnestly  begging  him  to 
make  haste,  as  he  believed,  from  the  redoubled 
shouts,  that  the  vessel  was  in  sight.  But  1:3 
begged  in  vain,  and  would  have  lost  his  long  ex- 
pected pleasure  from  Merrick's  selfishness,  had 


THE    RESTLESS    BOY.  187 

not  he  heard  his  father's  voice,  calling  "  Ed- 
ward !"  too  loudly,  authoritatively,  and  impati- 
ently, for  him  to  dare  to  disobey  the  call  ;  and 
urging  Merrick  to  come  down  directly  and 
follow  him,  he  also  ran  to  the  cliff.  When  he 
reached  it,  he  saw  the  vessel  had  cast  anchor  on 
purpose  to  set  his  uncle  on  shore ;  and  a  beauti- 
ful scene  it  was,  for  the  sands  and  cliffs  were 
lined  with  spectators,  waving  their  handkerchiefs 
to  those  whom  they  knew  on  board ;  but  Edward 
had  not  time  to  look  long ;  he  was  summoned 
to  the  shore,  to  go  off  with  Harry  and  his  father, 
in  the  boat  which  was  to  land  their  uncle.  When 
they  had  reached  the  vessel,  and  had  welcomed 
their  beloved  relation,  Edward  and  Henry  were 
invited  to  go  on  board,  and  sail  with  the  captain 
into  the  harbour.  This  was  such  a  delight !  but 
Edward,  while  about  to  ascend,  stopped,  and 
said,  "  But  poor  Merrick  !" 

"  Ay,  poor  Merrick,  papa  !"    echoed  Harry. 

"  Never  mind  him,"  said  Sir  George,  "  he 
considers  no  one  but  himself;  and  from  what  T 
have  observed  to  day,  he  deserves  this  mortifica- 
tion. So  away  wTith  you,  my  good  dear  boys  ;  I 
am  glad  of  the  pleasure  that  awaits  you  !" 

It  was  indeed  a  pleasure  of  a  new  and  lively 
kind.  The  gallant  vessel  with  all  her  colours 
flying,  scudded  rapidly  before  the   gale  ;  while 


1S8  THE    RESTLESS    BOY. 

Edward  and  Harry  waved  their  hats  and  hand* 
kerchiefs  to  their  friends  on  the  shore,  till  they 
could  behold  them  no  longer  ;  but  in  the  midst 
of  their  own  pleasure,  the  kind-hearted  boys 
could  not  help  saying,  "  Poor  Merrick  !  I  wish 
he  had  been  here  !" 

In  the  midst  of  this  waving  of  hats  and  hand- 
kerchiefs, Merrick  reached  the  shore  ;  but  in  a 
terrible  condition  !  Though  Edward  urged  him 
to  follow  directly,  or  the  vessel  would  be  gone, 
he  would  not  quit  the  nut  bush  till  he  had  filled 
his  pockets.  In  descending,  he  fell  down,  and 
while  stretching  out  his  hand  to  assist  himself  to 
rise,  he  put  it  on  a  snake,  which  bit  one  of  his 
fingers,  and  frightened  him  so  much,  that  he  ran 
to  the  cliff,  crying  with  pain  and  alarm,  and  his 
face  and  shirt  quite  purple  with  the  juice  of  the 
blackberries. 

As  those  who  heard  him  cry,  thought  it  was 
merely  because  the  boat  was  gone  without  him, 
his  disfigured  looks  only  excited  loud  laughter  ; 
and  little  MaryPemberton  could  not  help  saying, 
"  Oh,  cousin  !  what  a  frightful  figure  you  are  !" 
which  so  enraged  the  poor  suffering  boy,  that  he 
gave  her  a  slap  on  the  face,  to'  the  great  indigna- 
tion of  her  mamma.  But  her  resentment  instantly 
changed  into  pity  when  she  saw  Merrick's  hand, 
and  suspected  what  had  happened. 


THE    RESTLESS    BOY.  189 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  she,  "  you  have  been  bit- 
ten, if  Mary  had  known  that,  she  would  not  have 
said  what  she  did.  Come  hither,  my  dear — 
look  at  your  poor  cousin's  hand — he  has  been 
bitten  by  a  viper." 

The  good-natured  child  instantly  dried  the 
tears  Merrick's  blow  had  occasioned,  and  said, 
"  Poor  dear  Merrick,  I  am  very  sorry  !"  Merrick 
could  not  bear  this,  as  he  was  a  good-hearted 
boy  though  a  spoiled  one,  and  he  burst  into  tears 
of  a  better  kind  than  those  which  he  had  shed 
before,  and  eagerly  returned  the  kiss  which  his 
aunt  desired  Mary  to  give  him. 

But  when  he  saw  the  carriage  drive  round, 
which  was  to  go  to  fetch  Edward  and  Harry  from 
the  harbour,  he  declared  he  would  go  in  it,  for 
he  would  not  lose  all  his  fun.  And  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  his  aunt  could  pacify  him,  and  pre- 
vent his  endeavouring  to  jump  in,  till  the  surgeon 
whom  she  sent  for  arrived,  who  said,  that  such 
wounds  were  often  attended  with  fever,  he  must 
therefore  advise  his  patient's  being  put  to  bed  ; 
and  as  Merrick  now  discovered  that  he  had  also 
sprained  his  ancle  in  his  fall,  Lady  Pemberton 
had  no  longer  any  difficulty  in  procuring  obe- 
dience. 

When  Edward  and  Harry  returned,  full  of  the 
pleasure  which  they  had    experienced,  Merrick 


190  THE    RESTLESS    BOY. 

was  just  awaking  from  a  restless  sleep,  and  so 
unwell,  that  his  spirits  were  quite  subdued.  He 
said  to  Lady  Pemberton,  who  had  been  watching 
beside  him,  "  How  kind  you  are,  aunt ;  so  very 
kind  !  and  I  am  so  sorry  I  struck  Mary." 

"  What!"  cried  Harry  and  Edward,  who  now 
entered  the  room,  '"  did  Merrick  strike  Mary  ?" 
while  the  conscious  culprit  hid  his  face  in  the 
bed  clothes. 

"  Yes ;  but  he  had  provocation,"  said  their 
mamma,  "  and  he  is  very  sorry  for  it ;  so  never 
let  the  circumstance  be  mentioned  again." 

"  There — there — do  not  cry  so,  Merrick," 
said  Harry,  going  to  the  bedside,  "  we  are  very 
sorry  that  you  were  not  with  us." 

"  And  we  are  still  more  sorry  that  you  are 
bitten,"  said  Edward  ;  "  but  you  know  T  was 
forced  to  leave  you  when  papa  called  me.  How- 
ever, I  had  warned  you  from  those  bushes." 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  fault  was  all  mine,"  said 
Merrick,  sobbing  :  "  but  I  hope  I  shall  never  be 
so  served  again." 

"  Mamma,"  cried  Harry,  laughing,  "  this  has 
been  a  day  of  events." 

"  And  of  mishaps,"  added  his  mother. 

"  And  quite  sufficient  to  make  a  story  of,  mam- 
ma ;  therefore  as  you  know  no  story  is  complete 
without  a  moral,  you  must  make   one,  for  poor 


THE    RESTLESS    BOY.  191 

Merrick's  and  our  benefit,  out  of  our  adventures, 
and  his  misadventures." 

"  Do  mamma,  pray  do,"  said  Edward. 

"  Yes,  do  aunt,"  cried  Merrick. 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear,  in  the  first  place,  if 
M«rrick  was  in  the  habit  of  knowing  how  tc  im- 
prove his  time,  he  would  not  be  so  restless  and 
impatient,  and  be  always  wanting  to  be  where  he 
is  not. 

"  In  the  second  place,  if  he  had  been  used  to 
consider  others,  rather  than  himself,  he  would 
not  have  required  you  to  leave  the  shore,  where 
you  were  rationally  employed,  to  go  nutting  and 
blackberry  hunting,  mere  animal  gratifications, 
to  amuse  his  idleness  and  pamper  his  palate,  and 
that  too  at  the  risk  of  losing  the  promised  en- 
joyment of  all  three. 

"  In  the  third  place,  had  Merrick  been  wise, 
and  considerate  enough  of  others'  wishes  to  re- 
main on  the  shore,  he  would  not  have  fallen 
down  and  sprained  his  ancle  ;  would  not  have 
been  bitten  by  a  viper  ;  would  not  have  been 
tempted  to  the  fault  of  slapping  his  little  cousin's 
face  ;  and  would  not  have  lost  the  pleasure  of 
^oing  with  you  on  board  the  vessel,  and  sailing 
into  the  harbour." 

"  Very  true,  mamma — but  the  moral." 

"  Why,  this  is  the  moral,  dear  children,  and  I 


192  THE    SCHOOL-BOYS. 

hope  it  will  sink  deep  into  Merrick's  heart  more 
especially  : — that  employment  is  the  only  way 
to  make  our  time  pass  pleasantly,  and  enable  us 
to  enjoy  the  present  moment ; — that  greediness, 
and  the  indulgence  of  mere  appetite,  commonly 
end  in  disappointment  and  disgrace  ;  and  that 
those  who  require  the  sacrifice  of  other's  plea- 
sure to  their  own,  are  sometimes  justly  punished 
by  finding  the  result  to  be,  disappointment,  pri- 
vation, and  suffering  to  themselves." 


,o|o« 


THE  SCHOOL-BOYS. 

BY    MRS.    HOFLAND. 

"  My  dear  little  boy,"  said  George  Parker  to 
Henry  Sterndale,  "  you  have  been  very  kind 
|nd  useful  to  me  ever  since  I  arrived  at  this 
place,  and  I  wish  very  much  that" — 

Here  the  speaker,  a  young  West  Indian,  and 
full  three  years  older  than  the  child  he  addressed, 
(who  was  a  clever  little  fellow  in  his  tenth  year,) 
suddenly  made  a  full  stop,  and  his  dark  but  intel 
ligent  countenance  was  suffused  by  a  deep  blush* 
on  observing  which,  Henry  said, 


THE    SCHOOL-BOYS.  193 

M  "What  do  you  wish  ?  I  am  sure  I  will  do  any 
thing  to  oblige  you,  for  you  have  been  very 
generous  to  me,  and  that  is  more  than  I  can  say 
of  any  other  of  our  great  boys." 

M  I  wish  much  that  you  would  be  my  little  slave 
all  the  time  we  are  at  school  together,  for  I  love 
you  better  than  any  other  little  boy." 

Henry's  blood  mounted  more  quickly  to  his 
face  from  anger,  than  that  of  George  had  done 
from  timidity,  and  he  answered  indignantly — 

"  I  would  not  be  your  slave,  nor  that  of  any 
grown  up  man,  for  all  the  world.  No  I  not  even 
the  king's." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  mean  slave ; 
that  was  not  the  word  ;  but  I  was  told  when  I 
?ame  here,  that  I  should  have  a  little  boy  who 
(Vould  help  me,  and  to  whom  I  must  in  return  be 
rery  kind." 

"  I  suppose  they  said  you  would  have  a  fag." 

"  Yes,  that  was  it,  that  was  what  I  wanted." 

"  Well,  I  have  no  objections  to  be  your  fag, 
for  it  is  better  to  have  one  master  than  many,  and 
the  boys  here,  because  I  am  a  free  boy,  (by  which 
I  mean  I  don't  belong  to  any  one  of  them,)  have 
a  great  trick  of  ordering  me  about  on  all  occa- 
sions. Yes  !  I  will  be  your  fag  with  all  my 
heart,  but  pray  be  careful  never  to  use  that  word 

slave  to  a  free-born  British  boy  like  me,  or  there 
17 


191  THE    SCHOOL-BOYS. 

will  be  an  end  of  all  friendship  between  us. 
Why,  man,  it  would  set  our  blood  a  boiling  in 
December,  to  be  mistaken  for  one  of  your  West 
Indian  Negroes." 

"  I  shall  never  mistake  you  for  one  of  those 
poor  things,"  said  George,  as  he  stroked  up  the 
light  ringlets  that  fell  about  the  fair  face  of  Henry, 
"  so  you  don't  need  to  speak  in  such  a  loud 
voice,  and  even  if  you  were  one,  and  bought  with 
my  own  money,  I  should  neither  use  you  ill,  nor 
suffer  any  other  boy  to  do  it.  All  that  I  mean 
is,  that  I  am  a  stranger,  and  find  myself  very  ig- 
norant compared  to  those  who  are  much  younger 
than  me,  and  I  want  some  one  to  help  me,  as  you 
have  already  done,  for  which  I  would  be  grate- 
ful." 

Little  Henry  was  an  orphan,  placed  at  school 
by  a  relation,  who  unwilling  to  pay  the  expences 
of  so  genteel  an  establishment  as  the  one  his 
pride  and  not  his  affection  had  pitched  upon,  sub- 
jected the  poor  child  to  many  mortifications. 
His  clothes  were  generally  much  shabbier  than 
those  of  any  other  boy  ;  he  had  no  home  at  the 
holidays  whither  he  could  invite  any  of  his 
school-fellows,  and  what  was  worst  of  all,  he  had 
scarcely  ever  any  pocket  money  ;  and  though 
he  had  learnt  manfully  to  resist  the  temptations 
of  cakes  and  oranges,  he  had  by  no  means  ac 


THE    SCHOOL-BOYS.  195 

quired  the  power  of  enduring  the  sneers  which 
the  vulgar  and  unfeeling  indulged  in,  on  witness- 
ing his  poverty.  At  these  moments  his  indigna- 
tion rose,  whilst  his  heart  bled  with  sorrow  ;  and 
as  he  sought  to  hide  his  emotions  in  solitude,  he 
had  hitherto  mingled  so  little  with  his  compani- 
ons, that  he  had  not  made  that  connection  with 
any  which  was  generally  resorted  to,  by  which 
the  youngest  claimed  a  protector,  and  the  elder 
obtained  an  assistant,  or  servant. 

This  circumstance  had  been  favorable  to  our 
little  friend's  improvement,  for  he  had  often  spent 
that  time  in  reading  which  others  gave  to  play 
and  in  consequence  he  was  much  in  favour  with 
the  more  judicious  part  of  the  teachers  ;  but 
their  kindness  did  not,  of  course,  advance  him  in 
the  good  graces  of  his  school-fellows,  who  look- 
ed upon  him  as  a  person  below  their  grade  in  so- 
ciety, and  compelled  to  learn  in  order  to  supply 
his  wants.  Pride  of  circumstances  is  peculiar  to 
narrow  minds,  and,  therefore,  all  children  are 
given  to  it  because  they  are  all  ignorant,  until 
properly  informed  by  those  who  have  the  care  of 
their  education  ;  and  it  too  often  happens  that 
this  information  is  neglected,  for  points  in  fact 
of  much  less  moment. 

Young  Parker  was  not  aware  of  this  ;  he  came 
a  stranger,  and  although  the  son  of  a  very  weal- 


196  THE    SCHOOL-BOYS. 

thy  man,  since  his  father  had  no  title,  nor  was 
spoken  of  as  related  to  rank,  the  little  community 
did  not  recognise  him  at  first  as  entitled  to  consi- 
deration ;  and  in  the  kind-hearted,  though  re- 
tiring little  Henry,  he  perceived  the  first  person 
who  recognised  his  claims  to  kindness  as  a 
stranger.  When  he  became  sensible  of  his  own 
deficiencies,  and  Henry's  willingness  to  save 
him  from  rhame  or  blame,  his  affection  increased 
tenfold  ;  and  it  is  certain  that  although  he  made 
a  great  blunder  in  his  offer,  yet  it  was  in  the 
mode  only,  for  from  the  time  of  their  bargain,  his 
purse  and  his  power  were  alike  at  Henry's  ser- 
vice ;  and  when  his  ample  stores  were  known, 
all  the  rest  were  quite  willing  to  share  his  friend- 
ship and  his  presents. 

Henry  soon  found  that  his  generous  friend  had 
good  abilities,  but  great  idleness,  and  he  set  him- 
self, by  every  means  in  his  power,  to  excite  the 
former  and  conquer  the  latter.  For  this  purpose, 
whenever  George  wanted  him  to  write  an  exer- 
cise, or  do  any  thing  else  for  him,  he  used  to 
show  him  how  to  do  it,  but  positively  refuse  to 
prepare  it ;  and  so  far  from  accepting  gifts  for  his 
services,  he  uniformly  refused  taking  from  him 
even  an  apple  till  the  task  was  finished,  "  when" 
he  would  say,  "  we  can  eat  them  together  in 
pleasure."    George  would  sometimes  be  so  vex- 


THE    SCHOOL-BOYS.  197 

cd  with  his  firmness,  as  to  be  ready  to  abandon 
the  contract  he  had  made,  but  the  remembrance 
of  the  little  boy's  real  utility  and  affection  pre- 
vented him.  In  time  he  began  to  feel  the  plea- 
sure resulting  from  having  conquered  his  diffi- 
culties, subdued  his  indolence,  and  acquired  the 
knowledge  necessary  for  his  station  in  life  ;  and 
whilst  he  found  himself  the  equal  of  Henry,  he 
yet  never  forgot  that  it  was  to  his  influence  he 
owed  the  advantage  he  had  gained. 

George  remained  at  school  till  he  was  nearly 
eighteen,  as  his  father  wished  to  give  him  every 
advantage,  but  Henry  was  removed  when  he 
was  in  his  fifteenth  year,  as  his  uncle  desired  to 
make  him  early  useful  ;  and  being  a  tall,  manly- 
looking  boy,  as  well  as  an  industrious  and  clever 
one,  he  soon  became  of  importance  in  the  count- 
ing-house of  his  wealthy  relative,  who  was  a 
flourishing  merchant. 

The  boys  were  thus  effectually  divided  in  per- 
son, but  their  hearts  long  clung  to  each  other, 
and  very  hard  did  poor  Henry  think  it,  when  his 
uncle  (who  was  a  severe,  cold-hearted  bach- 
elor) forbade  all  correspondence  with  his  West 
Indian  friend,  as  a  foolish  and  expensive  waste  of 
time  and  money. 

Years  passed  on  ;  the  uncle  died, — and  after 
denying  his  nephew  during  life  almost  every  in- 
17* 


198  THE    SCHOOL-BOYS. 

dulgence,  left  him,  at  twenty-three,  a  large  for- 
tune and  extensive  business,  of  which  he  was  the 
uncontrolled  possessor.  Perhaps  the  sudden 
acquisition  of  so  much  property  and  liberty  might 
have  been  injurious  to  one  so  young,  and  hither- 
to so  closely  confined  in  circumstances,  if  he  had 
not  at  a  very  early  period  found  a  better  channel 
for  disposing  of  his  wealth  and  occupying  his 
leisure,  than  in  the  dissipation  and  pleasures  of 
the  metropolis. 

One  morning  as  he  sat  at  breakfast,  his  ser- 
vant announced  a  stranger,  and  after  earnestly 
surveying  him,  Sterndale,  throwing  down  the 
newspaper  in  his  hand,  rushed  impetuously  to- 
wards him,  exclaiming,  "  Surely  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  my  dear  friend  Parker  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir,  you  see  him  it  is  true,  unchanged 
in  heart,  but  alas !  very  different  in  circum- 
stances. You  are  now  a  man  conversant  in  the 
affairs  of  life;  you  are  well  aware  of  the  great 
losses  often  experienced  by  West  India  planters ; 
— my  father,  and  of  course  myself,  have  been 
amongst  the  greatest  sufferers," 

"  I  am  sincerely  grieved  tc  hear  it ;  but  come, 
sit  down,  my  dear  friend,  we  can  talk  over  these 
matters  at  our  leisure." 

"  No,  I  will  not  sit  down  till  I  have  told  you 
all.     My  poor  father  is  at  this  time  settling  all 


THE    SCHOOL-BOYS.  199 

our  affairs,  and  will  follow  me  with  the  wreck  oi 
our  property  ;  this  I  fear  will  prove  barely  a  sup- 
port for  myself  and  my  sister,  and,  therefore, I  now 
come  to  ask  you  to  change  with  me  as  men,  the 
relative  situation  we  held  together  as  boys — 
take  me  to  be  a  slave,  or  fag,  or  clerk,  whatever 
you  chose  to  call  it,  in  your  counting-house." 

"  I  will  take  you  to  be  all  three,  dear  George, 
for  one  year,  and  then  most  gladly  make  you  my 
partner,  if  you  shall  have  found  the  duties  de- 
manded from  you  agreeable  ; — in  the  meantime 
do  not  grudge  me  the  pleasure  of  feeling  I  am 
your  friend." 

"  Generous,  noble-hearted  Henry,"  cried  Par- 
ker, as  he  threw  his  arms  around  him,  and  strain- 
ed him  to  his  breart,  "  ah  !  how  different  is  your 
reception  of  me  to  that  of  many  others  since  the 
days  when  misfortune  began  to  frown  on  me ! 
Thankfully  do  I  accept  all  your  offers,  for  I  am 
well  aware  that  I  am  welcome  to  your  house  and 
your  heart.  You  never  flattered  my  faults  as 
a  boy,  you  never  cringed  to  me  in  my  days  of 
boyish  bounty,  and,  therefore,  you  will  never 
wound  me  by  your  pride  now  the  tables  are  turn- 
ed upon  us." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  remember  also  that  I  took 
freely  that  which  you  gave  freely,  and  that  I  owe 
debts   to  you  without  end,  which,  as  a  regular 


200  THE    SCHOOL-BOYS. 

tradesman,  it  is  now  my  duty  to  discharge.  Hoto 
often  have  you  slipped  into  my  hands  the  half- 
pence I  wished  to  give  an  old  beggar — how 
many  story-books  found  their  way  into  my  desk 
from  your  kindness  !  What  battles  did  you  wage 
for  me  !  Oh  what  pleasure  we  shall  have  in 
talking  over  our  early  days  V° 

Pleasures  of  the  purest  nature  were  indeed 
theirs.  Parker  became  vigilant  in  business,  and 
as  his  father  eventually  realized  a  considerable 
sum,  he  was  enabled  to  enter  into  business  with 
his  friend  on  nearly  equal  terms  ;  but  this  made 
no  difference  in  the  minds  of  either  party,  for 
they  were  alike  generous  and  confiding,  though 
prudent  and  industrious.  With  the  talents  and 
cultivation  of  polished  men,  they  retained  the 
warm  affection,  the  simple  kindness,  and  enthu- 
siastic friendship  of  early  life ;  and  many  of  the 
companions  of  that  period  proudly  press  round 
them  now,  to  partake  the  praise  of  being  also— 
the  friends  of  the  School-Boys. 


0     LINES  WRITTEN  AT  SEA 

BT    THE    REV.    ALEXANDER   DYCE. 

How  beautiful  the  many  tints  that  dye, 

Old  ocean's  face,  with  sweet  variety ! 

Sometimes  the  billows  roll  in  brightest  blue  ; 

Sometimes  they  wear  an  amethystine  hue, 

That  turns  to  indigo,  and  fades  away, 

By  soft  gradations,  into  leaden  gray  ; 

Now  they  are  green,  as  meads  refreshed  with 

showers, 
Now  russet,  as  the  lawn  in  summer's  sultry  hours. 

Nor  marvel  that  with  curious  eye  we  note 
Whatever  objects  past  our  vessel  float, 
Though  insignificant  and  common  things, 
They're  food  for  fancy's  fond  imaginings. 
Yonder  an  ample  bough  of  sea-weed  heaves, 
Now  seen,  now  hidden,  with  brown  jagged  leaves: 
Perhaps  it  grew  far  far  beneath  the  brine, 
Where  never  reach'd  the  many-fathomed  line, 
Where,  all  unconscious  of  the  tempest's  shock, 
Stands,  like  an  aged  tree,  its  parent  stock, 


202  LINES    WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 

Beneath  whose  branches  roseate  shells  are  laid, 
As  flowerets  blossom  in  the  green-wood  shade. 

And  pleasant  'tis  to  mark  the  joyous  play 
Of  the  white  birds  that  haunt  the  billowy  way : 
Together  clustering,  see,  they  calmly  sleep, 
Like  snowy  waterlilies  of  the  deep  : 
Their  pinions  flutter  now, — a  short  shrill  cry 
Is  heard, — glad  creatures  ! — and  aloft  they  fly, 
Like  fragments  of  the  foam  the  winds  have  caught 
on  high. 

"  A  sail,  a  sail !"  and,  scudding  'fore  the  blast. 
Behold,  a  giant  ship  approaches  fast ; 
Majestic  o'er  the  enridged  wave  she  springs 
Eve's  yellow  lig'nt  upon  her  canvass  wings  : 
She  is  of  Britain,  and  her  course  is  bent 
To  Hindostan's  odorous  continent. 
Well  may  you  speed,  fair  vessel !  for  you  hold 
A  cargo  richer  than  all  Asia's  gold  ; 
Your  freight  is  youth,  and  hope,  and  courage 

high, 
And  feelings  yet  in  their  first  purity : 
But  few  perhaps  of  all  your  stripling  train, 
Whom  fortune  beckons  to  the  eastern  plain, 
Except  in  dreams,  shall  see  their  homes  again. 

The  sun  is  setting,  while  an  host  of  clouds, 
In  close-embattled  ranks,  his  glory  shrouds : 


LINES    WRITTEN    AT    SEA.  203 

Yet,  where  he  sinks  into  his  western  bed, 
We  may  discern  a  gleam  of  dusky  red 
Shoot  o'er  the  trembling  wave,  as  if  a  flame 
From  some  far-off  volcanic  island  came  : 
Till  by  degrees  the  lingering  radiance  fails, 
And  night  her  banner  spreads  to  the  fresh-blow- 
ing gales. 

What  yonder  shines,  with  orb  too  broad  to  be 
A  fellow  of  the  starry  company, 
Just  o'er  the  horizon  ?     'Tis  the  beacon  light, 
By  science  planted  on  its  rocky  height : 
When  wintry  winds  howl  through  the  moonless 

skies, 
In  vain  the  waves,  that  mountain-like  arise, 
Smite  the  transparent  casket,  where  that  gem 
Is  shrin'd, — a  still-revolting  diadem 
Of  earthly  lire,  whose  splendour  streams  afar, 
While  seamen  bless  their  artificial  star. 


TO  THE  HAREBELL. 

Sweet  flower !  though  many  a  ruthless  storm 

Sweep  fiercely  o'er  thy  slender  form, 

And  many  a  sturdier  plant  may  bow 

In  death  beneath  the  tempest's  blow, 

Submissive  thou,  in  pensive  guise, 

Uninjur'd  by  each  gale  shalt  rise, 

And,  deck'd  with  innocence,  remain 

The  fairest  tenant  of  the  plain  : 

So,  conscious  of  its  lowly  state, 

Trembles  the  heart  assaiPd  by  fate ; 

Yet,  when  the  fleering  blast  is  o'er, 

Settles  as  tranquil  as  before  ; 

While  the  proud  breast  no  peace  shall  find, 

No  refuge  for  a  troubled  mind. 


THE  KING  AND  THE  MINSTREL  OF  ELY. 

FROM    THE    NORMAN-FRENCH.* 


BY   J.    G.    LOCKHART. 


Lordings  list  a  little  space, 

And  I'll  well  repay  your  grace  ; 

For  of  a  Minstrel  ye  shall  hear 

That  sought  adventures  far  and  near. 

Not  far  from  London  on  a  day, 

As  through  the  fields  he  took  his  way, 

He  met  the  King  and  his  menee. 

Around  his  neck  his  tabour  hung, 

Stamped  with  gold,  and  richly  strung  : 

"  For  love  now  (quoth  the  King)  me  tell 

Who  art  thou,  Master  Minestrel  1" — 

And  he  replies,  withouten  dread, 

"  My  master's  man,  sir  King,  indeed." — 

"  And  who,  sir,  may  this  master  be  ?"— 

"  In  faith,  my  mistress  masters  me."— 

"  And  who  thy  mistress  V — "  By  my  word 

The  goodly  dame  that  is  my  lord." — 

"  What  name,  I  pray  thee,  dost  thou  bear?"- 

*  Recently  printed  by  the  Roxburghe  Club. 
13 


206  THE    KING    AND    THE 

"  The  same  that  was  my  sire's  whilere." — 
"  What  name,  then,  had  this  sire  of  thine  ?" — 
"  The  same,  an't  please  ye,  that's  now  mine." — 
"  Whence    comest  thou,   merry  Minstrel  V9 — 

"  Thence." 
"  And  whither  may'st  be  passing?" — "  Hence." 
"  Speak  plainly,  man  ;  whence  comest  thou  ?" 
"  Why  from  our  own  good  town,  I  trow." —        * 
"  Which  town  may  that  be,  Master  Quirk  ?" 
"  The  town  about  the  minster-kirk." — 
"  What  minster-kirk  ? — come,  tell  us  freely."— 
"  The  minster,  sure,  that  stands  in  Ely." — 
"  And  where  stands  Ely  ?" — "  God  us  guide 
Where  but  by  the  water  side  !" — 
"  And  how's  this  water  call'd,  I  pray  V3 — 
"  Call'd  !  not  at  all,  Sir  ;  by  my  fay, 
The  water  chooseth  his  own  way, 
And  comes  uncall'd  both  night  and  day." 
"  All  this  we  knew  before,  my  friend." — 
"  Your  wisdom,  then,  I  can't  commend  : 
To  question,  question  like  a  barne, 
When  there  was  no  need  to  learn." 

"  So  help  me,  Jesu  !    (quoth  the  King,) 
I'll  ask  thee  yet  one  other  thing. 
Minstrel,  wilt  sell  thy  nag  to  me  V — 
•'  More  gladly,  'faith,  than  give  it  thee." — 
"  For  how  much  shall  I  have  the  nag  ?" — 
■  For  just  the  money  I  shall  bag." — 


MINSTREL    OF    ELY.  207 

"  Is  he  a  young  one  V9 — "  Well  I  ween 

His  chin  hath  yet  no  razor  seen." — 

»«  Speak  truly — is  he  sharp  of  sight?"— « 

*  Sharper,  I  think,  by  day  than  night." — 

"  Come,  Minstrel,  one  plain  truth  declare  : 

Is't  a  good  eater  ?'— "  That  I'll  swear : 

This  gelding  in  a  single  day 

Will  eat  more  trusses,  grass  or  hay, 

Than  you  'tween  January  and  May." — 

"  And  drinks  he  well  ?"— "  Now,  God  us  guard! 

He'll  swill  ye,  by  St.  Leonard, 

More  water  at  a  single  draught 

Than  I  in  weeks,  yea  months,  have  quaff 'd." — 

"  Is  he  a  creature  of  good  speed  1" — 

"  A  pretty  question's  here,  indeed  ; 

Howe'er  I  spur,  howe'er  I  thump, 

The  head  keeps  still  afore  the  rump." — 

"  Now  on  thy  conscience,  draws  he  well  ?"— 

"  Good  King,  I  scorn  a  lie  to  tell, 

He  ne'er  was  tried,  for  aught  I  know, 

At  either  harquebuss  or  bow." — 

"  Nay,  answer  me — a  truce  to  wit — 

Is  he  an  easy  nag  to  sit  1" — 

"  Conscience  is  conscience — I  declare, 

Less  easy  than  an  elbow-ehair." — 

"  These  answers  (quoth  the  King)  are  folly  : 

Is  the  nag  sound — completely,  wholly?" — 

"  In  truth,  lord  King,  I  must  confess, 


203  THE    KING    AND    THE 

He  hath  small  claim  to  holiness,* 

Else  monks  and  priests  would  dress  him  out 

With  trappings  gay  and  fine,  no  doubt." — 

"  Tush  !  (quoth  the  Monarch)  art  thou  raving  ? 

I  speak  of  staggers  or  the  spavin." — 

"  Nay,  (quoth  the  Minstrel,)  if  he  be 

Afflicted  with  such  malady, 

He  keeps  his  thumb  thereon  to  me." — 

"  Knave  (quoth  the  King)  I  value  not 

Thy  ribald  turns  and  quirks,  a  jot." — 

"  I'd  rather  that  thou  did'st,  by  half, 

For  'tis  my  trade  to  raise  a  laugh." — 

"  What  art  thou?"—"  By  our  lord  the  pope, 
No  harm's  in  telling  that,  1  hope  : 
I'm  one  of  not  a  few  whose  trade 
Is  most  to  eat  where  least  is  paid  ; 
As  also,  when  a  cup's  in  hand, 
To  sit  more  willingly  than  stand  ; 
Especially  if  dinner's  o'er, 
For  then  one's  heavier  than  before  ; 
And  to  sport  with  dame  or  maid, 
When  the  supper-table's  laid — 
Now,  good  my  lord,  I  pray  thee  say, 
W7hat  thinkest  thou  of  a  life  so  gay?" 

The  King  made  answer  :   "  By  my  troth, 
To  waste  my  thoughts  I  should  be  loth 
On  life  and  manners  worthless  both." 

*  The  quibble  is  on  sain  and  seint 


MINSTREL    OF    ELY.  209 

"  Sir  King,  (quoth  Minstrel,  bending  low,) 

Much  to  learn  and  much  to  know, 

Sober  life  and  solemn  cheer, 

What  avail  they  mortals  here  1 

It  is  as  sound  a  proof  of  wit 

To  gaily  dance  as  gravely  sit. 

Be  sad  and  still  as  suits  the  wise, 

'Tis  cunning  all  in  worldly  eyes  ; 

Be  blithe,  and  gay,  the  envious  race 

Will  pay  your  smile  with, — Babyface  ; 

But  frown,  and  they'll  exclaim,  What  art  ? 

Can  lighten  guilt's  uneasy  heart  ? 

Be  thou  wealthy  cavalier, 

And  eschew  the  tourney-spear, 

Slander's  tongue  will  not  be  dumb, 

But  hint  thou  art  Ji  rotten  plum. 

And  if,  upon  the  other  hand, 

Thou  haunt  high  places  in  the  land, 

Heads  as  many  shall  be  shaken, 

And  as  dark  suspicions  taken. 

Your  courtly  gallants,  thus  they  speak, 

Ride  brave,  and  honest  burghers  break. — 

If  e'en  the  shoes  upon  thy  feet 

Be,  as  beseemeth,  tight  and  neat, 

They'll  say  :  J  wis  they  pinch  and  smartt 

Much  comfort  to  thy  silly  heart  ! 

But  if,  purchance,  they're  old  and  wide, 

One's  ready  on  the  other  side 
18* 


210  THE    KING    AND    THE 

Who,  with  a  grin  of  equal  grace, 

Shall  whisper  :   Blessing  on  his  face, 

The  kind  good  frere  for  charity, 

That  did  his  sandal  shoon  untie 

And  give  to  this  poor  passer-by  ! 

If  thou  love  the  ladies  dearly, 

Praise  and  honour  them  sincerely, 

Each  ribald  tongue  is  prompt  to  swear, 

Yon  rake  betrays  him  by  his  air. 

But  if  aloof  thou'rt  seen  to  keep, 

That  will  not  set  the  fiend  to  sleep. — 

If  duly  as  the  morn  comes  round, 

In  the  confessional  I  am  found, 

Before  the  priest  to  speak  my  sin, 

And  pardon  of  the  church  to  win, 

One  says,  Some  prayers  are  starling-tricKi, 

Ou  such  my  hope  I  scarce  would  fix  : 

But  if  I  pass  the  steeple  by, 

Another  whispers,  with  a  sigh, 

Alas  !    to  death  some  people  jog, 

As  careless  as  my  puppy-dog  ! 

If  sorrowing  over  follies  past, 

My  soul  I  humble  with  a  fast, 

Says  one,   What  horror  hath  he  clont 

Destroyed  a  father  ?   or  a  son  ? 

Yet,  if  I  never  fast  a  whit, 

This  mends  the  matter  ne'er  a  bit  s 


MINSTREL    OF    ELY.  211 

An  open  reprobate  once  more, 
I'm  Curst  of  God,  and  clean  given  o'er  ! 
— 0  God  !  we  live  in  such  a  time, 
That  keep  us  e'er  so  pure  from  crime, 
We  ne'er  can  hope  to  shelter'd  be 
From  bold  or  coward  calumny  !" 

"  Sir  Minstrel,  (quoth  the  King,)  in  sooth, 
Just  when  thou  wilt,  thou  knowest  the  truth : 
Here,  hold  thy  hand,  and  take  thy  fee  ; 
But  e'er  thou  go'st — one  word  with  thee — 
What  art  may  keep  a  Royal  Name 
In  uncalumniated  fame  V — 

"  Sir,  (quoth  the  Minstrel,)  thus  say  I 
Be  not  too  humble  nor  too  high  ; 
Too  much  of  one  thing,  runs  the  saw, 
Is  good  for  nothing  ;  make  that  law. 
In  Latin  also  down  'tis  come, 
Tenent  beaii  medium." 

Whoso  this  tale  shall  well  perpend, 
To  him  sound  doctrine  it  may  lend  ; 
He,  even  he,  God's  truth  may  tell, 
That  doth  wear  the  cap  and  bell. 
And  so  unto  an  end  I  bring, 
The  story  of  our  lord  the  King, 
And  Ely's  merry  Minstrel. 


OYER  A  COVERED  SEAT 

IN    THE 

rLOWER-GARDEN  AT  HOLLAND-HOUSE,  WHERE  THE  AUTHOR  OP 

THE  "PLEASURES  OP  MEMORY"  HAS  BEEN  ACCUSTOMED 

TO  SIT,   APPEAR  THE  FOLLOWING  LINES. 

Here  Rogers  sat,  and  here  for  ever  dwell, 
To  me,  those  pleasures  that  he  sings  so  well. 

VASSALL   HOLLAND 

How  happily  sheltered  is  he  who  reposes 
In  this  haunt  of  the   poet,  o'ershadowed  with 

roses, 
While  the  sun  is  rejoicing,  unclouded  on  high, 
And  summer's  full  majesty  reigns  in  the  sky ! 

Let  me  in,  and  be  seated.— I'll  try  if,  thus 
placed, 
I  can  catch  but  one  spark  of  his  feeling  and  taste, 
Can  steal  a  sweet  note  from  his  musical  strain, 
Or  a  ray  of  his  genius  to  kindle  my  brain. 

Well — now  I  am  fairly  installed  in  the  bower, 
How  lovely   the  scene  !     How  propitious  the 

hour ! 
The  breeze  is  perfumed  by  the  hawthorn  it  stirs  , 
All  is  beauty  around  me  ; — but  nothing  occurs  ; 


LINES  OVER  A  COVERED  SEAT.     213 

Not  a  thought,  I  protest,  though  I'm  here  and 

alone, 
Not  a  line  can  I  hit  on  that  Rogers  would  own, 
Though  my  senses  are  ravished,  my  feelings  in 

tune, 
And  Holland's   my  host,  and   the  season  is 

June. 
The  trial  is  ended.     Nor  garden  nor  grove, 
Though  poets  amid  them  may  linger  or  rove, 
Nor  a  seat  e'en  so  hallowed  as  this  can  impart 
The  fancy  and  fire  that  must  spring  from  the 

heart. 
So  I  rise,  since  the  Muses  continue  to  frown, 
No  more  of  a  poet  than  when  I  sat  down  ; 
While  Rogers,  on  whom  they  look  kindly,  can 

strike 
Their  lyre,  at  all  times,  in  all  places,  alike. 

HENRY    LUTTRELL. 


STANZAS 

BT   LORD    F.    L.    GLOWER, 

ON  THE  EXECUTION  MILITA1RE, 

A    PRINT    FROM    A    PICTURE    BT    VIGNERON. 

It  exhibits  the  moment  when  the  condemned  soldier  kneela  to 
receive  the  fire  of  the  party  appointed  to  be  his  executioners. 
His  friend,  and  the  priest,  are  seen  retiring.  His  dog,  whom  ho 
is  endeavouring  to  shake  off",  still  fawns  upon  him,  and  seenw 
desirous  to  share  his  fate. 

His  doom  has  been  decreed, 
He  has  own'd  the  fatal  deed, 

And  its  forfeit  is  here  to  abide  : 
No  mercy  now  can  save, 
They  have  dug  the  soldier's  grave, 
And  the  hapless  and  the  brave 

Kneels  beside. 

No  bandage  wraps  his  eye, 
He  is  kneeling  there  to  die, 

Unblinded,  undaunted,  alone. 
His  parting  prayer  has  ceased, 
And  his  comrade,  and  the  priest. 
From  their  gloomy  task  released,— 

Bot'v  are  gone. 


STANZAS. 

His  kindred  are  not  near 
The  fatal  shot  to  hear, 

They  can  but  weep  the  deed  when  'tis  done , 
They  would  shriek,  and  wail,  and  pray, 
It  is  good  for  him  to-day 
That  his  friends  are  far  away, 

— All  but  one  ! 

Tn  mute,  but  wild  despair, 
The  faithful  hound  is  there  ; 

He  has  reach'd  his  master's  side  with  a 
spring. 
To  the  hand  which  rear'd  and  fed, 
Till  the  ebbing  pulse  has  fled, 
Till  that  hand  is  cold  and  dead, 

He  will  cling. 

What  art,  in  lure  or  wile, 
That  one  can  now  beguile 

From  the  side  of  his  master  and  friend ! 
He  has  burst  nis  cord  in  twain  ; 
To  the  arm  which  strives  in  vain 
To  repel  him,  he  will  strain 

To  the  end. 

The  tear-drop  who  shall  blame, 
Though  it  dim  the  veteran's  aim, 

Though  each  breast  along  the  line  heave  the 
sigh  i 


216  THE    PANORAMA. 

Yet  'twere  cruel  now  to  save, 
And  together  in  the  grave, 
The  faithful  and  the  brave, 
Let  them  lie. 

— oo*oe— 

THE  PANORAMA. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  intense  delight  with 
which  I  first  beheld  a  Panorama.  I  was  then  a 
boy  of  some  ten  years  old,  who  had  seen  a  few  of 
me  more  obvious  wonders  of  London,  with  a 
most  insatiate  appetite.  My  imagination  was 
never  tired  of  thinking  of  the  height  of  the  ball  of 
St.  Paul's,  which  my  fears  would  not  allow  ine 
to  climb  ; — my  memory  delightedly  lingered 
amongst  the  wax-work  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
making  fearful  confusion  in  my  dreams  of  Gene- 
ral Monk,  looking  white  and  interesting  on  his 
neighbour,  the  unhappy  Maid  of  Honor,  who 
died  of  a  wound  in  her  finger ;  while  the  fair 
victim  of  housewifery  was  frowning  as  gauntly 
as  if  her  pale  forehead  were  covered  with  the 
skull-cap  of  the  Puritan.  Miss  Linwood's  ex- 
ploits in  worsted  were  then  the  rage,  and  more 
especially  delightful  were  they  to  the  ladies.  I 
remember  her  copy  of  Barker's  Woodman,  but  I 
remember  nothing  more.  As  I  left  Miss  Lin- 
wood's exhibition,  (I  think  it  was  then  in  Hano- 


THE    PANORAMA. 


2lf 


ver-square,)  I  was  invited  to  see  the  Panoramas 
I  had  not  a  shadow  of  an  idea  what  a  Panorama 
could  mean  ; — and  the  dear  friend  who  was  my 
guide  wanted  to  give  me  a  surprise.  I  was  led 
along  a  somewhat  dark  passage,  up  a  narrow 
stair : — and  then — (oh  !  that  my  mind  could  ever 
again  feel,  at  the  contemplation  of  the  most  sub- 
lime or  the  most  beautiful  object  of  nature,  as  it 
felt  at  that  moment) — there  lay  my  beloved 
Windsor,  stretched  at  my  feet.  I  screamed 
with  an  agony  of  pleasure.  I  knew  that  I  was 
in  London ; — but  there  was  spread  before  me 
the  park,  where  I  was  wont  to  play — the  terraces, 
whence  I  had  used  to  gaze  upon  the  distant 
nills — the  river,  whose  osier  bowers  were  as  fa- 
miliar to  me  as  my  own  little  garden — the  steep 
and  narrow  streets,  which  I  then  thought  the 
perfection  of  architecture — the  very  honse  in 
which  I  was  born.  I  rubbed  my  eyes — I  was 
awake — the  scene  was  still  there.  I  strained 
my  ears,  and  I  fancied  that  I  heard  the  cawing 
of  the  rooks  in  those  old  towers.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  I  could  be  dragged  away  ; — and 
when  I  came  out  into  the  garish  sunshine  of 
Leicester-square,  and  saw  the  bustling  crowds,- 
and  heard  the  din  of  the  anxious  city,  1  was  re- 
luctantly convinced  that  I  had  looked  upon  it 
picture,  and  I  thought  that  the  extreme  bounda-' 
vies  of  ro-t  had  been  reached  in  the  Panorama; 
29 


ROSALIE, 


BT    DERWEST    C0NV7AY. 


Jluthor  of  '  Solitary  Walks  throvgh  many  Lands.* 

The  facts  on  which  the  following  little  story 
is  founded,  I  became  acquainted  with  during  a 
summer  ramble  in  Dauphiny,  which  my  young 
readers,  no  doubt,  know  to  have  been  one  of  the 
provinces  of  France,  before  that  country  was 
divided  into  departments  ;  and  which  now  com- 
prehends the  departments  of  the  Isere,  the  uppes 
Alps,  and  the  Drome.  The  little  village  of  Lft 
Bergere,  in  the  latter  of  these,  is  the  scene  of 
my  story  ;  and,  perhaps,  when  some  of  my  young 
friends  grow  up  to  be  men  and  women,  they  ma 
go  abroad,  and  see  the  village  where  my  heroin.) 
Rosalie  resided,  and  sit  down  under  one  of  the 
almond  trees,  and  think  of  her  and  her  brother 
Albert,  and  of  all  I  am  going  to  relate. 

The  father  of  Rosalie  rented  a  small  vineyard, 
the  produce  of  which  was  no  more  than  sufficient 
to  procure  daily  bread ;  but  with  this,  no  one  was 
discontented:  never, did  the  family  assemble 
around  the  table,  spread  with  bread  and  fruit,  and 
milk,  without  expressing  the  gratitude  of  the 


ROSALIE,  2i^ 

heart,  to  Him,  who  had  so  kindly  provided  for 
their  daily  necessities. 

Albert  and  Rosalie  were  the  only  children  of 
their  parents  ;  and  Albert  was  five  years  older 
than  his  sister.  No  children  were  ever  more 
united  than  Albert  and  Rosalie.  While  an  in- 
fant, Albert  had  been  her  little  guardian  ;  he  had 
walked  with  her,  and  carried  her  across  little 
brooks,  and  sat  down  with  her,  and  weaved  bas- 
kets of  sainfoin  for  her, — and,  when  she  passed 
from  infancy  into  childhood,  he  became  her  in- 
structor and  her  companion  ;  for  the  cure  of  the 
village,  having  noticed  the  quickness  and  good 
dispositions  of  Albert,  had  a  sort  of  paternal  af- 
fection for  him,  and  had  taught  him  those  ele- 
ments of  knowledge,  which  he,  in  his  turn,  was 
eager  to  communicate  to  his  sister. 

Time  thus  passed  away  ;  Rosalie  was  just  se- 
venteen, and  Albert's  eighteenth  birth-day  had 
arrived.  Shortly  before  this  period,  a  new  con- 
scription— which,  let  me  inform  my  young  read- 
ers, means  an  allotment  of  young  men  to  serve 
in  the  army — had  been  ordered  by  the  emperor  ; 
and  it  was,  unfortunately,  the  very  day  after 
Albert  had  attained  his  eighteenth  year,  that  a 
return  was  to  be  made,  of  all  the  youths  within 
the  department  who  had  reached  that  age.  Al- 
bert's name  vas  given  in  with  the  rest ;  andfl 
Linlucitiiy,  tne  next  day  he  was  drawn  a  con 


220  ROSALIE. 

script !  Rosalie  knew  that  this  event  was  pos- 
sible— for  Albert  had  explained  it  to  her ;  but 
vet,  when  he  was  seen  vaulting  over  the  low 
wall  into  the  vineyard,  in  the  evening,  his  hat 
decorated  with  a  cockade,  the  smile  forsook  her 
lips — she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,— and  a  tor- 
rent of  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  It  was  a 
gloomy  evening  within  the  cottage  of  old  Du- 
fresne  :  he,  the  bereaved  father,  hardly  raised 
his  head  ;  his  wife,  the  affectionate  mother  of 
Albert,  did  nothing  but  weep  and  lament  by 
turns.  As  for  Rosalie, — she  could  not  remain 
in  the  cottage,  but  strayed  beyond  the  vineyard 
to  a  grassy  slope,  and  sat  her  down  beneath  one 
of  the  almond-trees,  that  she  might  the  more 
freely  give  vent  to  her  sorrow  ;  and  she  was  at 
last  recalled  to  herself  by  the  voice  of  her  bro- 
ther— who  came  in  search  of  her,  to  bring  her 
home,  as  the  damps  were  beginning  to  rise.  A 
neighbor,  but  one  of  the  richest  in  that  district, 
was  sitting  in  the  cottage,  when  Rosalie  return- 
ed,— he,  too,  had  that  day  had  a  son  drawn  a 
conscript ;  and  as  Rosalie  entered  the  house 
she  heard  him  say,  that  he  had  already  agreed 
for  a  substitute  for  his  son  ;  and  that  the  bargain 
would  cost  him  five  hundred  francs,  which  my 
young  friends  know  is  equal  to  twenty  sove- 
reigns ;    and   Rosalie   also  heard,  that  it  ye$ 


ROSALIE,  £21 

vranted  fourteen  days  of  the  time  fixed  for  the 
march  of  the  conscripts. 

Many  a  time,  after  neighbor  Dubois  had  taken 
leave,  and  drawn  the  latch  after  him,  did  Rosalie 
repeat  to  herself  what  he  had  said, — and  long  did 
she  ponder  upon  it  after  she  had  laid  her  head 
upon  the  pillow.  Five  hundred  francs  could 
save  Albert ;  for,  with  the  idea  of  his  going  to 
the  wars,  Rosalie  could  not  separate  the  cer- 
tainty of  his  being  killed.  But  how  were  the 
five  hundred  francs  to  be  obtained  ?  Rosalie 
knew  well  her  father  had  them  not, — and  as  for 
herself— she,  poor  thing,  had  only  two  sous. 
In  short,  with  a  sad  heart  and  swollen  eyes,  she 
dropped  asleep  ;  but  sorrows  seldom  pursue  the 
youthful  mind  into  the  watches  of  the  night, — 
and  Rosalie  slept  soundly,  and  awoke  refreshed 
not  long  after  the  lark  had  sung  his  first  hymn 
at  the  gates  of  heaven. 

Now,  I  have  not  yet  told  my  young  readers, 
what  I  must  no  longer  withhold  from  them,  that 
Rosalie,  ever  since  she  had  been  a  very  little 
girl — not  more,  perhaps,  than  eight  years  old — 
had  employed  herself,  during  her  play  hours,  in 
a  pursuit  that  had  no  doubt  been  to  her  a  source 
ot  much  childish  delight.  It  was  not  painting 
that  was  Rosalie's  pursuit :  there  were  no  co 
krs,— no  brushes  to  ue  bought,— no  drawing- 
master  to  be  found  at  La  Bergere  ;  nor,  if  there 
19* 


222  ROSALIE, 

were,  had  Rosalie  the  means  of  paying  for  thesfc* 
3S  either  was  Rosalie's  pursuit  the  collection  of 
insects — she  was  too  tender-hearted  for  this  ; 
for,  if  she  caught  a  beautiful  insect,  it  was  with 
the  light  touch  of  gentleness,  only  to  admire  its 
purple  wing  and  let  it  go.  Rosalie's  pursuit 
was,  to  gather  and  preserve  wild  flowers,  which 
she  dried  in  so  perfect  a  manner,  that  almost 
every  charm  remained  with  them  ;  but,  beside 
this,  Rosalie  had  found  out  the  art  of  taking 
such  perfect  impressions  from  them,  upon  silk, 
(which  was  given  to  her,  every  year,  by  the 
Lyons  merchant,  who  bought  the  produce  of 
her  father's  vineyard,)  that  the  grace — the  tints 
— the  freshness — all  but  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers,  continued  to  live  in  these  impressions. 
I  do  not  know  by  what  process  Rosalie  con- 
trived to  do  this,  else  I  would  communicate  it  to 
my  youthful  readers  ;  but  they  have  probably 
pursuits  more  important  than  this  to  occupy 
their  time, — and  are  not,  as  poor  Rosalie  was, 
without  the  means  or  opportunities  of  cultivating 
their  minds,  It  is  only  the  kind-heartedness  of 
Rosalie,  and  her  perseverance  and  courage  in 
the  cause  of  filial  affection,  that  \  am  desirous 
of  recommending. 

Rosalie,  as  I  have  said,  awoke  early,  and  re- 
freshed, the  morning  after  she  had  wept  herself 
Hsleep  at  the  thoughts  of  being  parted  from 


ROSALIE.  223 

Albert ;  and  after  having  dressed  herself,  and 
said  her  prayers, — in  -which  she  did  not  forget 
to  name  her  brother, — she  happened  to  turn  her 
eyes  upon  some  withered  mountain  anemones, 
rare  and  beautiful  plants,  which  she  had  plucked 
the  day  before  ;  and  these  were  the  first  flowera 
she  had  ever  neglected,  and  allowed  to  wither  : 
her  herbier  was  lying  open  before  her  ;  she  took 
it  up,  and  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  many  were 
the  beautiful  font's,  and  lovely  hues,  that  met 
her  eyes.  "  Can  this,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  be 
of  any  value  ?— oh,  that  I  had  not  neglected 
these  anemones,  the  only  ones  I  ever  found." 
That  day,  and  every  day  for  more  than  a  week, 
"Rosalie  was  absent  the  greater  part  of  the  morn- 
ing ;  and  every  evening  she  applied  herself, 
with  more  than  usual  care,  to  the  occupation  of 
fdling  her  herbier.  Her  father  and  her  mother, 
and  Albert  too,  wondered  that  she  should  with- 
draw herself  so  much  from  the  society  of  one 
she  so  dearly  loved,  and  with  whom  she  was  so 
soon  to  part :  but  something  was  evidently  la- 
boring in  the  mind  of  the  youthful  Rosalie  ;  at 
length,  her  affectionate  mother  drew  from  her 
her  secret. 

"  Rosalie,  my  dear  child,"  said  her  mother, 
one  day,  as  she  came  in  with  a  handful  of 
flowers,  after  having  been  long  absent,  "  Your 
father  was  seeking  for  you  to  day,  to  tie  the 


224  ROSALIE. 

vines  ;  but  how  is  it,  love,  that  when  our  Albert 
is  so  soon  to  leave  us,  you  stay  so  little  at  home  ? 
you  used  to  love  Albert,  Rosalie." 

Poor  Rosalie  ! — it  was  too  much  for  her  to  be 
suspected  of  indifference  for  her  brother ;  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  hid  her  head  in  her  mothers 
lap,  continuing  to  sob  bitterly.  But  when  her 
mother  raised  her  up  and  kissed  her,  and  told  her 
she  was  sure  she  loved  Albert,  Rosalie  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  told  her  all  she  had  to  tell.  Her 
herbier,  she  said,  she  was  sure  must  be  worth 
something ;  she  would  carry  it  to  Valence,  and 
sell  it :  and  all  these  days  she  had  been  occupied 
n  seeking  for  flowers,  more  rare  and  more  beau- 
tiful than  those  she  possessed  ;  she  would  not — 
she  could  not — part  from  Albert ;  she  would 
labour  day  and  night  to  fill  her  herbier,  if  she 
might  but  obtain  leave  to  go  to  Valence  and  sell 
it :  and  here  Rosalie  again  began  to  weep.  ISTo 
one  spoke  ;  but  as  her  father  and  mother  ex- 
changed looks,  their  eyes,  too,  filled  with  tears. 
Neither  father  nor  mother  saw  any  prospect  of 
good  from  Rosalie's  project ;  and  yet,  when  she 
ran  and  fetched  her  treasure,  and  spread  out  its 
beauties  before  them,  Rosalie's  scheme  did  not 
seem  to  their  simple  minds  so  absolutely  vision- 
ary. Rosalie  anxiously  watched  the  effect  of  her 
exhibition,  and  seeing  it  favourable,  beseechingly 
implored  her  parents  to  grant  her  petition :  she 


ROSALIE.  225 

had  often,  she  said,  walked  farther  in  search  of 
flowers  than  to  Valence  ;  if  she  did  not  succeed, 
things  were  no  worse — but  she  was  certain  of 
success, — and  her  mother  had  a  relation  not  far 
from  Yalence,  where  she  could  remain  all  night. 
At  length  her  father  and  mother  yielded — more 
to  gratify  the  virtuous  wish  of  an  affectionate 
child,  than  from  any  other  motive, — and  next 
morning  was  fixed  for  Rosalie's  journey. 

Rosalie  went  early  to  bed,  that  she  might  be 
fortified  by  rest,  against  the  fatigues  of  the  next 
day ;  and  by  sun-rise  she  was  ready  to  set  out. 
Having  carefully  tied  up  her  herbier  in  a  hand- 
kerchief, and  put  it  into  a  little  basket,  which  she 
took  to  bring  home  some  necessaries  from 
Yalence,  she  went  on  tiptoe  down  the  wooden 
stairs,  thai  she  might  not  disturb  her  parents. 
The  wakeful  mother,  however,  heard  her,  and 
calling  "  Rosalie,"  Rosalie  was  the  next  moment 
in  her  arms, — and  with  the  kisses  and  blessings 
of  both  mother  and  father,  she  drew  the  door 
after  her,  and  passed  into  the  vineyard.  There 
another  embrace  awaited  her, — for  Albert  was 
already  at  work,  and  watching  her  departure. 
He,  although  he  tenderly  loved  his  sister,  and 
secretly  wished  to  remain,  yet  felt  some  little 
pride  in  being  destined  for  the  pursuit  of  glory, 
and  had  never  either  thwarted  or  encouraged 
Rosalie's  project,  which  he  believed  would  come 


-25  ROSALIE. 

to  nothing.  One  other  embrace,  and  "  c/Miew, 
monfrere"  and  "  aurevoiv,  ma  chere  soeur"  and 
Rosalie  had  left  the  vineyard,  and  was  on  the 
road  to  Yalence, 

It  was  as  lovely  a  May  morning  as  ever  broke 
upon  the  beauties  of  Dauphiny  :  the  fields  were 
yet  gemmed  with  dew  ;  the  woods  stood  silent 
m  thick  masses,  the  uprisen  sun  darting  its 
yellow  rays  among  their  trunks  ;  the  deer  were 
standing  in  the  glades,  snuffing  the  breath  of 
morning  ;  and  the  little  birds  were  trimming  their 
moist  plumes,  in  preparation  for  their  early  soar- 
ing and  matin-song.  I  think  I  see  Rosalie  trip- 
ping along,  her  little  basket  slung  under  her  arm, 
and  now  and  then  opening  the  lid,  and  assuring 
herself  of  the  safety  of  her  treasure. 

It  was  three  long  leagues  to  Yalence ;  but 
Rosalie  hardly  slackened  her  pace  all  the  way  ; 
for  if  at  any  time  she  felt  a  disposition  to  relax, 
the  thought  of  her  brother,  and  the  importance 
of  her  mission,  immediately  gave  her  new 
strength,  and  urged  her  on  her  way  ;  once  or 
twice,  indeed,  she  stopped  to  look  at  a  flower  by 
the  way-side, — and  two  or  three  times,  to  take 
out,  and  open  her  kerbier,  that  she  might  be  more 
and  more  certain  its  contents  were  really  as  beau- 
tiful as  she  fancied  them  to  be. 

It  was  market-day  at  Yalence  ;  numbers  of 
girls  were  standing  with  baskets  of  vegetables. 


ROSALIE.  £27 

Sutter,  and  eggs, — and  some  few  with  flowers  ; 
among  the  latter,  Rosalie  took  her  place  :  being 
a  stranger  to  the  market  girls,  all  of  whom  knew 
each  other,  and  her  little  basket  being  closed,  she 
was  an  object  of  some  curiosity  to  them.  For 
a  considerable  time,  she  stood  without  any  one 
taking  notice  of  her,  considering  in  what  way 
she  was  to  display  her  treasure  to  the  persons 
who  had  now  begun  to  look  into  the  baskets  and 
make  purchases  ;  at  length,  one  of  the  market 
girl*,  who  was  standing  nearest  to  her,  address- 
ing her,  "  ma  Petite,"  requested  to  know  if  she 
had  any  thing  to  sell ;  and  what  she  had  in  her 
oasket.  Rosalie  drew  forth  her  herbier,  and  was 
unloosening  the  string,  whem  a  lady  coming  by, 
asked  the  same  question,  which  Rosalie  an- 
swered by  dropping  a  curtesy,  and  putting  the 
herbisr  into  her  hand  ;  but  after  examining  the 
leaves,  she  returned  it  to  Rosalie,  and  passed  on. 
Soon  after,  another  stopped,  and  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  her  herbier ;  one  specimen  was  called 
"  joli,"  another  "  gentil,"  and  a  third  "  superot ;" 
but  the  lady  never  inquired  the  prices  of  them  ; 
many  others  looked  at  Rosalie's  herbier,  all 
praised  the  beauty  of  her  specimens, — some 
passed  extravagant  encomiums  upon  her  inge- 
nuity, but  she  only  found  one  customer — an 
elderly  gentleman,  who,  calling  her  "  pauvre  en- 
fant" gave  her  five  francs  for  as  many  leaves  ot 


22S  ROSALIE. 

her  herbier.  At  last  poor  Rosalie  was  left  almost 
alone  ;  and  as  she  saw  the  girls  one  by  one  leave 
their  stations,  having  sold  the  contents  of  their 
baskets,  her  heart  quite  failed  her,  and  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  she  put  her  herbier  into  her  basket, 
and  went  in  search  of  the  relation's  house  where 
she  had  promised  tq  stay  all  night.  But  Rosalie 
had  only  been  once  before  in  Valence,  and  going 
out  at  the  wrong  gate,  she  might  have  walked  all 
night  before  reaching  the  hamlet  where  her  rela- 
tion lived :  but  Rosalie  still  walked  onwards, 
with  a  sad  heart,  indeed,  and  every  minute  grow- 
ing more  weary,  and  her  feet  more  tender,  from 
the  hard  paved  roads,  which  were  very  different 
from  the  meadows  where  she  used  to  seek  for 
flowers.  The  sun  was  near  setting,  and  Rosalie, 
entirely  exhausted,  and  beginning  to  be  afraid,- 
sat  down  upon  a  stone,  at  the  gate  of  a  fine 
chateau,  and  began  to  weep. 

She  had  sat  but  a  very  short  time,  when  a  per- 
son on  horseback  stopped  at  the  gate.  Rosalie, 
with  the  instinctive  civility  of  a  French  child, 
rose  to  open  the  gate, — and  at  the  same  moment, 
recognized  the  old  gentleman  who  had  given  her 
five  francs  for  five  leaves  from  her  herbier ; 
while  he  also,  at  once  knew  the  little  interesting 
girl  who  had  so  ingenious  a  method  of  preserv- 
ing, and  taking  the  impressions  of  flowers.     Ho 


ROSALIE.  229 

was  one  of  those  persons  who  never  see  dis- 
tress without  feeling  a  desire  to  relieve  it ;  and 
when  he  saw  Rosalie's  swollen  eyes  and  trem- 
bling steps,  he  kindly  inquired  into  the  cause  ; 
and  dismounting  from  his  horse,  and  walking  up 
the  avenue,  taking  hold  of  her  hand,  he  soon 
drew  from  her,  her  little  tale  of  sorrow. 

The  Baron  Chaubert  had  no  wife  living,  but  he 
had  four  daughters  ;  two,  about  the  same  age  as 
Rosalie,  and  two  a  little  older  ;  and  the  greatest 
pleasure  and  pride  in  the  father,  was,  to  see  his 
laughters  instructed  in  all  that  was  useful,  and 
accomplished  in  all  that  was  pleasing  ;  and  it 
was  for  their  use  in  the  study  of  painting,  that  he 
had  purchased  the  leaves  of  Rosalie's  herbier, 
while  at  the  same  time,  he  had  felt  a  pleasure  m 
rewarding  ingenuity.  Rosalie,  and  her  story, 
were  introduced  to  the  young  ladies  at  the  same 
time,  and  nothing  could  exceed  their  admiration 
of  the  impressions  on  silk,  which  Rosalie  show- 
ed to  them,  except  their  admiration  of  the  pur- 
pose for  which  she  had  carried  them  from  home  , 
nor  could  any  thing  exceed  their  anxiety  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  so  pleasing  an  art,  except 
their  anxiety  to  befriend  Rosalie.  "  I  am  sure, 
my  dear  children,"  said  their  father  to  them,  "you 
would  like  R,osalie  to  teach  you  to  make  such 
charming  pictures  as  these ;"  every  face  glad 
20 


230 


ROSALIE. 


dened  at  the  idea — and  every  tongue  was  ready  to 
express  delight  at  the  proposal  !  Some  fruit  was 
ordered  for  Rosalie's  refreshment,  and  quickly 
the  little  girl  and  her  four  pupils  were  seated  at 
a  table  ;  silk  provided — fresh  flowers  brought 
from  the  garden — and  every  face  expressive  ot 
the  most  delighted  attention,  as  Rosalie,  taking 
the  flowers  and  the  silk  in  her  hand,  began 
"  Voycz  vous,  mesdames."  It  needed  but  a  little 
while  to  perfect  the  young  ladies  in  the  art ;  and 
in  less  than  an  hour  each  had  a  flower,  graceful 
and  glowing,  upon  white  silk,  to  present  to  papa. 
"  My  dears,"  said  he,  examining  the  specimens 
"  we  are  all  much  indebted  to  our  young  friend, 
but  our  thanks  are  not  sufficient ;  she  has  given 
to  you  a  new  source  of  pleasure,  which,  but  for 
her,  you  might  never  have  possessed  ;  I  am 
sure  you  are  willing  in  return  to  continue  to  her 
a  source  of  far  higher  pleasure, — the  society  of  a 
kind  brother  ;  go  then  to  your  stores,  and  bring 
each  of  you  what  you  can  afford."  In  a  moment 
they  were  at  the  door,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more, 
they  had  returned,  and  were  about  to  present  a 
pretty  bead  purse  to  Rosalie,  filled  with  silver 
and  gold,  when  the  baron  said,  "  Hold,  my 
children,  I  wished  but  to  show  Rosalie,  that  vir- 
tue is  sure  to  find  sympathy  and  reward  ;  but  it 
is  your  father  who  pays  for  vour  education  ;  th©? 


ROSALIE.  231 

purse  itself,  however,  shall  be  a  gift  from  you. 
The  Baron  then  taking  Rosalie's  herbier,  put 
twenty-five  louis-d'ors  into  the  purse,  and  placed 
it  in  Rosalie's  basket,  saying  with  a  smile,  "  ten 
of  them  are  for  the  herbier ;  five,  for  teaching 
my  daughters  your  pretty  art ;  and  the  other  ten 
you  are  to  return  when  you  grow  rich  ;  Rosalie, 
all  the  while,  could  not  find  words  to  thank  them, 
but  stood,  with  burning  cheeks,  down  which  tears 
of  gratitude  and  joy  rapidly  followed  one  another. 

Rosalie,  exhausted  with  the  fatigues  of  the 
day,  was  soon  conducted  to  bed  by  her  sympa- 
thizing young  friends  ;  joy,  for  a  while  kept  her 
awake ;  but  she  at  length  dropped  into  a  deep 
sleep, — and  next  morning,  with  the  kind  adieus 
of  the  young  ladies,  she  was  conducted  on  a 
mule,  to  within  a  short  distance  of  her  father's 
vineyard.  Need  I  tell  what  joy  followed  the 
narrative  of  her  adventure,  and  her  success  ;  or 
what  blessings  were  bestowed  upon  her  1  I  am 
sure  I  need  not, — my  young  readers  can  easily 
picture  the  family  group. — and  the  questions  and 
smiles,  and  kind  looks,  that  passed  among  them. 
But  there  was  something  beyond  this, — the  in- 
ward contentment  which  follows  the  happy  ac- 
complishment of  a  virtuous  resolution, — and  this, 
Kosalie  felt. 

I  have  nothing  to  add  to  my  story,  more  thai* 


232  ROSALIE. 

that,  some  time  after  this  event,  Dufresne  a  -A 
his  family  removed  to  a  large  vineyard,  on  the 
estate  of  the  Baron  Chaubert,  where,  as  he  in- 
creased in  wealth,  he  joyfully  repaid  ..ie  ten 
louis-d'ors, — and  still  acknowledged  in  his  pros- 
perity the  hand  of  God  j  and  that  Albert  ever 
continued  to  remember  with  gratitude,  and  t'0 
repay  with  kindness,  the  affection  and  tho  sey 
rices  of  his  beloved  sister. 


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